Buch lesen: «The Abducted Heiress»

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Prologue

Stockholm, Sweden, 1653

‘What’s wrong, Father? Is it bad news?’ Jakob asked.

Instead of replying, James Balston continued to stare at the letter in his hand.

Jakob’s sense of unease grew stronger. His mother also noticed her husband’s unusual reaction to the letter. Margareta lowered her embroidery to her lap and waited for James to speak, a crease of worry between her eyes.

‘Andrew is dead,’ said James. It was a measure of his shock that he spoke in English.

‘Förlåt?’ Margareta looked at Jakob in confusion. Despite the fact that she and James had been married for eighteen years, she still spoke very little English. ‘Vad sade han?’

‘Andrew är död,’ Jakob automatically repeated his father’s words in Swedish.

‘Åh nej!’ The colour drained from his mother’s face.

The depth of her distress momentarily surprised Jakob. None of them had ever met his cousin Andrew—

Jakob’s wits suddenly caught up with him. Now that Andrew was dead, Jakob’s father was first in line to an English viscountcy. They would all have to go to England. No wonder his mother was so upset.

‘Must we leave at once?’ he asked.

‘No!’ Margareta took a deep breath and visibly calmed herself. ‘We will do as you think best,’ she said to her husband.

‘There’s no immediate rush,’ said James, his tone reassuring. ‘By all accounts my father is in excellent health. But we must make some preparations. Gustaf!’ He raised his voice. ‘Gustaf! Birgitta, tell your brother I want him!’

Jakob’s brother and sister were playing chess at a small table on the other side of the room. Birgitta had lifted her head at the sound of her father’s voice, but Gustaf was still absorbed in studying the chess board. Birgitta gave his shoulder a shove.

‘Father wants you,’ she told him, when he looked up in surprise.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Gustaf apologised. ‘I was engrossed in the game.’

‘I understand,’ said James, a slight smile briefly lightening his expression, ‘but now it is time for you to become engrossed in work.’

Jakob saw a spark of excitement in his brother’s eyes. ‘Am I to join you and Jakob in the counting house?’ Gustaf demanded.

‘Yes.’ James laid aside the letter and divided a thoughtful look between his two sons. ‘Your cousin Andrew is dead,’ he told Gustaf, ‘which means that one day I will have to return to England and so will Jakob. I had hoped that the two of you would be equal partners in the business you will one day inherit from me here in Sweden. But now circumstances have changed,’ he paused, pressing his lips together as he considered the implications of those changes.

Jakob listened with interest and some excitement at the prospect of the adventure that lay ahead of them. He knew his mother was dismayed at the idea of living in a strange country, but surely with the comfort of her family around her she would not find it too difficult. Jakob himself was eager to face the challenge.

‘One day Jakob will inherit the title and estates in England,’ James continued. ‘If he is to do his duty by his inheritance, he will have to make his permanent home in England. He will not be able to take an active part in the merchant business I have established here in Sweden.’

Disappointment suddenly dampened Jakob’s enthusiasm for his new life. He enjoyed working alongside his father, trying to prove he could be just as successful and shrewd a merchant as James. He would be sorry to leave that part of his life behind.

‘You will start working with me tomorrow,’ James said to Gustaf. ‘We must waste no time in teaching you everything you need to know. As for you, Jakob—’ he looked at his older son, a curious mixture of pride and resignation in his eyes ‘—we will have to make other plans for you. You would have made an excellent merchant—but it seems that is not to be your destiny.’

Chapter One

The Strand, Saturday 1 September 1666

Lady Desire Godwin stood in the middle of her rooftop garden, looking around at the results of her afternoon’s labour. This small Eden above London was her domain and her sole creation. Servants kept the water cistern filled for her. Soon she would have her porters carry the orange trees down into the stove house to protect them from the first frosts. But she did all the other work in the elevated garden herself.

The early evening air was heavy with the sultry heat of late summer. Desire pulled off her broad-brimmed straw hat and brushed an earth-stained hand across her damp forehead. When she was finally satisfied that her sanctuary was in order, she lifted her gaze to look beyond the parapet.

The sun was setting, painting the western sky in glowing shades of gold and crimson. The earthenware-tiled roofs and church spires of London stretched away towards the east, deceptively peaceful beneath the honeyed evening light.

Desire tried to conjure an image of people hurrying or loitering through the streets and alleyways. She had little experience to draw upon. She had never been part of the jostling crowds. She rarely left the safety of Godwin House. The last time had been five years ago, when she’d watched the King’s coronation procession from the window of an upper room on Cheapside.

From the corner of her eye she saw a sparrow swoop down to bathe in a shallow dish of water she provided for the birds. She turned her head to watch it, smiling at the pretty sight. The heady scent of stocks drifted on the warm air. A bee buzzed lazily among the flower heads. The sparrow ducked its head beneath the water, tossing a myriad glistening droplets over its back and half-opened wings.

A scraping sound from the other side of the wall disturbed the tranquillity of her haven. She frowned in puzzlement and took a step towards the unfamiliar noise, startling the sparrow into flight.

A man’s head appeared over the top of the parapet. Desire swayed back in shock. An instant later the man’s shoulders came into view. Desire stared in disbelief as a stranger vaulted on to her roof, landing neatly on his feet a short distance away from her.

She gazed at the intruder in frank astonishment, her heart thudding with surprise. She was too startled to be frightened—or even to hide her face.

It was years since she’d last met a stranger. And she’d never before laid eyes on a man who looked like this. An angel who had taken mortal form.

His eyes were the infinite blue of a summer sky. His face the most beautiful Desire had ever seen. His features were finely carved, yet full of masculine strength. He wore his blond hair long, according to the fashion of the times. The setting sun gilded his flowing locks, transforming them into a cascade of liquid gold about his shoulders.

He looked just like the archangel Desire had seen once in a stained-glass window. All the colours in the picture had been given heavenly radiance by the sunlight streaming through the glass. This man reminded her of that shining, golden image. He was too perfect to be made of human flesh and blood.

His flesh was smooth and firm, his skin bronzed like Apollo’s by the rays of the sinking sun. He possessed the perfection of youth, but it was coupled with the strength and virile power of full maturity.

He wore only a white linen shirt and dark breeches. Beneath the shirt Desire could see the contours of lean, hard muscles. The shirt was open at the neck and the soft fabric revealed the uncompromising breadth of his shoulders. Desire’s gaze travelled downwards, taking account of his flat stomach and narrow hips, and the long, powerful length of his legs.

Her eyes returned briefly to his perfect face…

And then she gasped with shock. Finally remembering what she so rarely completely forgot.

The man standing before her was perfect.

But she was not.

Shame and distress thundered through her. She half-raised her hands to cover her face, then turned her back on him instead. Now, belatedly, she trembled with shock at his abrupt intrusion. Confused questions raced through her mind, but she didn’t yet trust her voice to challenge his trespass into her private domain.

Jakob was contending with some surprises of his own. He had been told that Lady Desire Godwin lived a reclusive life in her grand mansion on the Strand. He’d assumed her reticence was the result of sensible prudence, since apparently she had neither father or guardian to protect her. He had also been told that Lady Desire was usually to be found in her rooftop garden. He had therefore imagined her reclining gracefully in a shady bower, attired in silks and satin.

Instead he’d surprised a work-dishevelled woman wearing simple, unfashionable garments. Her skirt had obviously been torn and mended several times in the past. To Jakob’s pleasure, the soft fabric of her bodice revealed the natural contours of her slim, shapely body. It seemed the lady had chosen not to endure the discomfort of heavy boning while she worked. Jakob admired her good sense, even as he wondered whether she could possibly be the woman he sought.

Her hands were stained with earth. Her face was beaded with perspiration, and there was a streak of dirt across her forehead. He had been told that Lady Desire was thirty years of age, but this woman appeared to be several years younger. Her chestnut hair was pinned haphazardly on top of her head in a style that owed more to convenience than fashion. The low sunlight burnished her errant curls to a rich red. A few tendrils, which had escaped the pins, were darkened with perspiration and stuck to her damp face.

Far more startling than her clothes were the scars on her face. They were blemishes that had no place on a woman so young, shapely and obviously full of healthy energy. The pale scars ridged one cheek, puckering skin that should have been smooth and youthful. The fairness of her other cheek revealed the beauty that should have been her birthright. The comparison between what her appearance could have been, and what it was, was cruel in its simple starkness.

Confusion held Jakob silent for several long seconds. How had she come to be so badly injured? Smallpox scars were not unusual among all sections of the population, but these scars looked more like the wounds a soldier might receive in battle. He felt a surge of pity for her, even as the analytical part of his mind strove to make sense of what he’d discovered. Was this the heiress he sought? Were the scars the reason for her seclusion? Or was this simply a maidservant toiling in the lady’s garden?

The lady stared at him in equal confusion, for which he could hardly blame her. But there was an expression of wonder, almost awe, in her warm, velvet brown eyes he didn’t understand at all. By rights she should have been haranguing him for his trespass or calling her servants to throw him out.

Instead she gazed at him as if he were a mirage, or some kind of ghostly vision. Jakob wondered briefly if the accident that had marred her body had also robbed her of her wits.

At that very instant, her expression changed. From wonder to horror. A variety of shifting emotions flickered in her eyes. Distress, shame, anger.

Her hands half-lifted towards her face. Then she turned her back on him.

The soldier in him was profoundly shocked that she chose a response which left her so defenceless. The man in him noticed the graceful line of her slim neck, exposed by her upswept hair. The skin of her nape was pale and soft, emphasising her vulnerability. Jakob cursed himself as his body tightened with unexpected desire for hers—even as he felt an equally strong, conflicting compulsion to comfort her.

He kept his hands resolutely by his sides and cleared his mind of everything but the reason he had scaled the wall of Godwin House. He was running out of time. He needed to make sure of the lady’s identity. He cleared his throat.

‘Do I have the honour of addressing Lady Desire Godwin?’ he asked.

Desire’s head jerked up. The stranger had spoken to her. There was an exotic quality to his words, as if English wasn’t his first language. Perhaps he really was an angel of the Lord.

It had been so long since Desire had had contact with the outside world that the notion of an angel coming to call on her hardly seemed more unlikely than the sudden appearance of a strange man in her personal Eden.

But, if he was an angel, she thought chaotically, he ought to have descended down on to her roof from the heavens—not climbed up to it from the ground. Maybe he was a fallen angel…

‘Lady Desire?’ he repeated, with soft urgency.

She took a deep breath. It was time to regain control of events. This was her roof. Angel or no, she was entitled to an explanation for this intrusion. She turned around slowly, clutching her hat before her in both hands like a shield. But she held her head resolutely high, making no effort to conceal her face. It was too late to hide. She’d already gaped in amazement at the stranger for so long he’d had time to trace each of her ugly scars.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded.

As she spoke, she forced herself to look up and meet his eyes, expecting to see revulsion or pity in his gaze. When she’d momentarily forgotten her own appearance, it had been easy to gaze at his male beauty—now it was hard to look into his face.

But she saw nothing in his clear blue eyes except puzzlement and a certain amount of impatience.

The sun had fallen below the horizon and he no longer glowed with angelic radiance. He looked entirely like a mortal man. A very tall, powerful, athletic man who had scaled her wall like a brigand.

‘Who are you?’ Fear sharpened her voice. ‘What do you want?’

‘Jakob Smith,’ he replied. ‘My lady—’

‘You aren’t English,’ she said, suspicious that a man of such exotic appearance truly owned such a commonplace name.

She saw another flicker of impatience, or possibly exasperation, flash in his beautiful eyes.

‘My mother is Swedish, my father was English,’ he replied crisply. ‘My pedigree, however, has no relevance to the current circumstances.’

‘Are you suggesting mine has?’ Desire demanded, astounded by his effrontery.

Despite the bizarre nature of their encounter, she no longer felt overawed by him. She was well aware of the hazards of fortune hunters. Her steward, Walter Arscott, had impressed upon her the need for caution. Only a few months ago Arscott had told her about Lord Rochester’s recent attempt to abduct an heiress from her carriage as she travelled through Charing Cross. Lord Rochester had botched the abduction and been put in the Tower for his pains, but he was not the only fortune hunter in England. The stranger on her roof, handsome though he appeared, was probably just a more enterprising example of the breed. It was time to exert her authority

‘Did you invade my garden to—?’ she began.

‘Are you Lady Desire?’ Jakob Smith snapped, startling her with his urgency. As he spoke he threw a quick glance over her shoulder.

Desire automatically followed his gaze, feeling a flutter of uneasiness as his impatience communicated itself to her. To her relief, there was no one else on the roof, but it gave her an idea.

‘My servants will be here soon—to carry down the orange trees,’ she improvised. ‘Stout fellows. They have to be to lift such burdens. You should escape before they get here.’

Jakob Smith grinned briefly, a dazzling expression on his already handsome features. ‘If that were true, you wouldn’t warn me,’ he pointed out. ‘You’d keep me here so they could seize me.’

‘I would?’ Desire rubbed her temple with gritty fingers, then realised she’d probably put a dirty mark on her face. She snatched her hand away and glared at him. ‘You haven’t answered my question,’ she reminded him. ‘What are you doing—’

‘But you’ve answered mine,’ he replied, smiling faintly. ‘Your servants, your orange trees, my lady,’ he added by way of explanation. ‘And we don’t have much time.’ He glanced beyond her again and swore softly.

Desire threw a quick look over her shoulder—and this time her cold shiver of apprehension was justified. There were two more strangers walking towards her across the roof. Unlike Jakob Smith, they bore no resemblance to angels.

The leader was dressed in a green doublet and breeches. He wore a sword at his side and—Desire’s apprehension turned to fear as she focussed on his right hand—he carried a pistol.

The other man carried neither sword nor pistol, only a short, brutal cudgel and a man’s doublet.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ said Smith in a hasty under-voice as the men approached. ‘I won’t let any harm come to you.’

‘You serpent!’ Desire whirled away from him.

As the two men came closer the second man threw the doublet in Smith’s direction.

‘Next time look after your own gear,’ he said roughly.

‘I told you to seize the lady—not dally with a serving wench,’ said the man with the pistol to Jakob Smith. ‘Where’s your mistress, doxy?’ For the first time he gave his full attention to Desire.

She saw the moment he noticed her scars. Surprise, then contempt appeared in his eyes as he waited impatiently for her answer.

Red-hot rage erupted within her. She was so angry she forgot to be frightened.

‘Get off my roof!’ She pointed one emphatic hand in the direction they had to take. ‘Get off now!’

The man with the pistol stared at her—then he laughed. ‘Your roof?’ he jeered. ‘You’re too ugly to be so pert. Where’s your lady?’ His tone abruptly became much more menacing as he waved the pistol in her direction.

Desire’s racing heart skipped a beat. She was still angry—but now she had been reminded she was also in grave danger. She glanced quickly between the three men. All her senses seemed sharper than normal. Her confusion when Jakob Smith had first appeared was now replaced with intense alertness.

The lout with the cudgel appeared bored. Jakob Smith stood relaxed but vigilant. Unlike the other two men, he carried no obvious weapon—but he didn’t need one. He’d already demonstrated his strength and agility when he climbed on to the roof. If he decided to manhandle her, Desire knew she’d stand no chance against him. It was a terrifying thought.

‘Where’s Lady Desire?’ The man in the green doublet threatened her again with his pistol.

‘There’s no need to abuse the wench,’ Jakob Smith said curtly, moving between them.

‘Keep your mouth shut! You’re paid to obey orders, not give them!’ Green Doublet snarled. ‘Stand away from her and watch we’re not interrupted.’ For a second he pointed his pistol at Jakob, not Desire, to reinforce his command.

Jakob stepped quietly aside, though his large body remained poised for action.

Desire took advantage of their momentary distraction to retreat a couple of places. For a few seconds her knees had weakened with shock, but now strength flowed back into her legs. Wit, not brute force, must be her salvation. If they fell into an argument, she might have a chance to escape.

‘Stand still!’ Green Doublet pointed his pistol at her. ‘Where’s your mistress?’

‘I’ll—I’ll get her for you,’ she offered, remembering too late that Jakob Smith already knew her identity.

Her gaze whipped to his face. She expected any moment to hear him denounce her. He was frowning—but she saw he was looking at the man with the pistol, not at her.

’I’m not a fool, you doxy!’ Green Doublet sneered.

Another surge of fear spiked through her. She stared at him, afraid he’d guessed who she was—but he just laughed scornfully. ‘You won’t get her—you’ll warn her! Tell me where she is?’

‘Oh.’ Desire’s relief was so great she could hardly speak. She was ashamed of hiding in the guise of a servant, but she didn’t know what else to do. She had no weapon and no way of raising the alarm without putting herself in immediate jeopardy. But she was afraid for the safety of her household. She couldn’t let these criminals rampage through the house threatening her staff.

‘Why do you want her…Lady Desire?’ she demanded, playing for time. ‘What’s she to you?’

‘A bride, you doxy! Now—’ he lunged forward and seized her upper arm ‘—tell me where she is!’

Desire pitched towards him. Then instinctively dug in her heels and pulled away from him, appalled at his words.

His bride?

Her foot scraped against the oak boards surrounding a raised flowerbed. She nearly fell. Her heart pounded with panic. She managed to save herself, then changed direction so that the corner of the bed was between her and her attacker.

An outraged shout from the other end of the rooftop startled them both, interrupting their desperate tug-of-war. A musket shot roared in Desire’s ears and the man pitched forwards into the plants. He still had a grip on her arm and he dragged her down with him. The scent of bruised lavender filled her lungs.

Horrified, she wrenched her arm out of his dying grasp. She flailed her hands through the lavender, desperate to gain solid purchase to stand. One hand touched his unfired pistol. She jerked away, then changed her mind. There had been three villains on the roof and only one shot fired. She could already hear the sounds of a grim struggle a few feet away. She picked up the pistol, thrust herself on to her knees, and then to her feet, glancing wildly around.

Twenty feet away, her steward, Walter Arscott, struggled with the cudgel-carrying lout.

A scream rose in Desire’s throat.

Jakob Smith was nearly upon her, like a lion closing on his prey. In the dusk his golden hair had become a tawny mane, flowing around his broad shoulders. She saw the glint in his eyes, the intense expression of a predator on his handsome face. If he got close enough to touch her the pistol would offer no protection.

Desire jerked her hands up, pointing the weapon squarely at his chest.

He stopped instantly. Held his arms away from his body, palms towards her, in a gesture as easy to interpret as her levelled pistol.

Desire took a shaky breath, her gaze locked on his face, as she tried to read his intentions. The pistol felt unbelievably heavy. Only by an intense effort of will did she stop her arms from trembling. She had to stay in command of the situation. She didn’t dare take her eyes off Jakob, even for a moment, to check on Arscott. But she could hear that the fight still continued.

‘Tell him….’ She swallowed and steadied her voice. ‘Tell him I’ll shoot you if he doesn’t leave Arscott alone,’ she rasped.

Jakob’s brows snapped together. He looked away from her to frown at the two fighting men. ‘Arscott?’

‘My steward. Tell your…your friend to leave Arscott alone or I’ll shoot you!’

Jakob’s lips twisted into an ironic smile. ‘Your man’s won,’ he said.

‘He has?’ Desire was so relieved she instinctively looked to see. Jakob was right. It was Arscott rising to his feet. The lout who’d carried the cudgel was lying across the path, his head twisted at an unnatural angle. A wave of nausea rose in Desire as she realised the man was almost certainly dead. Two dead men on her roof—

Fear punched in her stomach. She jerked her gaze back to Jakob, her finger tightening on the trigger. She’d just given him all the opportunity he needed to seize her.

He hadn’t moved. He was watching Arscott with narrowed eyes.

Fury burned through her.

‘You’ll hang for this,’ she said harshly.

‘Will he?’ Jakob looked past her, an unreadable expression on his face as he looked at the man in the green doublet sprawled in the lavender.