Moonrise. Ana Seymour
all my life,” she answered, for lack of any other response. But Anthony preferred to stay with the topic of her eyes.
“A cat’s eyes. But they turn storm-cloud gray when you’re angry.”
“I don’t believe you’ve seen me angry, my lord.”
“Not angry, then, but...incensed. As when you stood up for your uncle last night. I sensed that there was more behind your words. ‘Years of battle and betrayal,’ I believe you said. And there was anger, deep down.” He moved even closer and lifted a finger to point at her face. “And storm clouds there...in those lovely gray eyes.”
“The Civil War was hard on everyone,” Sarah answered carefully. “It’s not something I like to think about.”
“But when a king’s man arrives at your home, you have no other choice, is that it?”
She shook her head slowly. He was very near again, but this time she had no urge to step back. In fact, she felt almost compelled to draw even nearer. “Perhaps I was ready to dislike you, Lord Rutledge, for being a king’s man. But I find that you are not as I would have expected.”
Anthony’s hand had lowered to settle along her arm. Gently he pulled her an imperceptible space toward him. “And how do you find me, mistress?”
Sarah’s heart hammered in her throat and ears, making it hard for her to speak. “Not...disagreeable,” she rasped.
A glint lit the darkness of Anthony’s eyes. “Agreeable, then?”
She nodded.
“I find you very agreeable, Mistress Sarah,” he said in a voice that had grown husky. He bent toward her, his other hand at her elbow, closing the distance between them. Sarah swayed, her knees suddenly weak.
“Mistress Fairfax!” a shrill female voice called from the road.
Sarah stiffened and Anthony’s hands tightened on her arms. They turned in unison toward the sound of the cry. An attractive young woman was approaching them on a lumbering horse with no saddle. She was barefoot and her cotton skirts were hiked up around her thighs.
“It’s one of the village women,” Sarah said, a lump of disquiet lodging painfully in her throat. She had recognized at once the shapely form of Jack’s new friend, Norah Thatcher.
“What does she want with you?” Anthony asked, irritated by the interruption.
Sarah shook her head. Norah slipped from the broad back of the horse and ran toward them, breathing heavily. She stopped in some awe when she got close enough to take a good look at the baron, but recovered quickly and turned to Sarah. “Your...er...Master Partridge sent me to fetch ye, mistress.”
Sarah felt a stab of fear in her middle. “What’s wrong, Norah?” she asked, her voice rising with apprehension.
“Ye’s to come to the village right quickly, mistress.” She stopped and took a deep gulp of a breath. “It seems that the sheriff has arrested Parson Hollander.”
Chapter Three
Sarah rode stiffly alongside Anthony. Their huge mounts had long since left behind the poor farm horse with Norah Thatcher clinging to its back.
“Is it far to the village?” Anthony shouted.
Sarah shook her head. All at once things seemed to be spinning out of control. Gentle Parson Hollander had been arrested. Anthony had insisted on accompanying her to the village, and she didn’t know what they would find when they got there. She hoped that Jack would have enough sense to stay out of sight, and that he had had time to enlist the parson’s help in making sure the villagers knew about the “Henry Partridge” deception. She was confident that they would cooperate with the ruse. There was little love for the king in the town with the taxes being increased regularly to finance the Dutch war. And Jack and Sarah had been treated kindly since arriving at their uncle’s after their father’s execution four years ago. Most of the residents of Wiggleston knew how protective Sarah had been of Jack over the years. She could count on their help, as long as Jack and the parson had had time to spread the word.
“Mistress Sarah, are you close to this village parson? You look distressed.” Anthony was watching her with a thoughtful look on his face that did not help Sarah’s unease.
“He’s been the family parson as long as I can remember.”
“He’s a Puritan, then?”
Sarah hesitated. King Charles had proven remarkably tolerant in allowing Puritans to freely practice the religion that had figured so prominently in the overthrow of his father. But Sarah could not let go of her mistrust. Her father had been killed for his beliefs, and she did not feel comfortable discussing such matters with a representative of the crown. “Parson Hollander is the most godly man I know,” she replied at last. “It’s absolutely ridiculous to think of him being put under arrest.”
Anthony noted the evasiveness as well as the vehemence of her reply and decided to keep his questions to himself. After their near embrace in the meadow, he was more determined than ever to take Mistress Sarah to his bed before he left Yorkshire. He was even prepared to overlook the fact that she obviously knew more about the goings-on in this area than she was willing to let on to him. His mission would be greatly simplified if this Parson Hollander was the moonlight bandit. They should know soon—he prided himself on having an instinct about such things. For the time being he would let Mistress Fairfax keep her secrets.
Wiggleston was nestled at the base of a series of limestone crags that led down to the sea. Unlike bustling Kingston-on-Hull to the north, the village’s coastline was too rocky to be a commercial port. Except for an occasional poor fishing coble, the Wiggleston coves were occupied only by gannets and razorbills that soared in and out with complete sovereignty. To the west of the village, the cliffs turned into gentle Yorkshire wolds and eventually stretched out as vast moors, which still had a purple cast even in their winter dryness.
Sarah usually loved the moment when the sea came into view as she rounded Bratswick Scar on the road into town. But today she barely glanced out at the water. Her mind was too busy with the complications of the current situation.
“The sheriff’s house and gaol is not far. I can make my way by myself from here,” she said to Anthony. “Why don’t you go on back to Leasworth and spend some more time with the horses?”
Anthony shook his head. “I wouldn’t think of it. You’re upset. I’ll go with you and see what this is all about. Perhaps I can be of some help.”
Sarah gritted her teeth and gave a slight pull on Brigand’s reins to tell him to head around the big gritstone smithy and proceed along the neat row of brick cottages that made up the most prosperous part of town. At the end was the larger brick structure that housed the town gaol. A number of townsfolk were congregated in the village green just in front of it.
Sarah surveyed the crowd anxiously and let out a long breath when she saw no sign of Jack in the group. She stopped in front of an iron hitching post and jumped from Brigand’s back. Anthony was at her side almost at the same instant. He took her arm as they made their way through the crowd.
“Mistress Fairfax, thank goodness you’re here.” A reedy fellow with thinning hair pushed his way toward them.
Roger Spragg had been the town mayor for as long as anyone could remember, keeping his post by virtue of his untarnished record of absolute inaction. Sarah was surprised to see him so uncharacteristically agitated.
“What’s going on, Mr. Spragg?”
The mayor twisted his hands and smacked together the edges of his mouth, which seemed to be devoid of lips. “Perhaps we should send for your uncle, Mistress Fairfax. There’s king’s men in town and your...” He stopped and looked nervously over at Anthony. “Well, and now they’ve gone and arrested Parson Hollander.”
Sarah