At the Highwayman's Pleasure(23)

‘My friends at the theatre are not rich-'

‘I am not interested in your friends. Only your father.'

‘You really expect Phineas to pay for my safe release?'

‘I do.'

‘I am afraid you are very far out there,' she said quietly. ‘As far as Phineas is concerned, I am no longer his daughter.'

He observed her carefully. There was a tension in her voice, as if she  was trying to conceal pain, but he was not fooled. She was an actress,  and a good one.

‘You will not make me believe that, madam.'

She put down her cup.

‘I ran away from home at fourteen and became an actress. In his eyes I am nothing but a disgrace to his name.'

‘But he would not want any harm to come to you.'

She closed her eyes for a moment, as if to push unpleasant memories away. Suddenly it was important to him to reassure her.

‘Believe me, madam, I shall not harm you. I mean only to keep you here for a little while.'

‘And if my father will not pay you?'

‘He will pay.'

‘You are wrong.'

He sat back and regarded her. Even in a crumpled evening gown and with  her hair pinned up so carelessly, she was beautiful, fair as wax. Her  eyes were the deep blue of a summer ocean and gazed out from a face that  was quite perfect, from the wide brow and straight little nose to the  delicate cheekbones and pretty chin that was now tilted up in a  challenging manner.

It was inconceivable that any man, even Phineas Weston, would refuse to  help this glorious creature. He shrugged and feigned indifference.

‘Then we will have to wait and see who is right, won't we?'

‘That could take some time, and I have nothing more than a comb with me.'

‘After you have written a note to your father you can give me a list of  what you consider necessary and I will see what I can do.'

* * *

Charity regarded him helplessly. He was like a block of granite, solid  and unmoving. Perhaps he was telling the truth and he did not mean to  harm her, but what choice would he have, once Phineas had proven himself  equally resolute, as she knew he would?

She sat forward, saying quickly, ‘If it is money you want, then I have my own fortune. Property, too, which I could-'

‘I don't want your money,' he interrupted her harshly. ‘My quarrel is  not with you, it is with your father.' He pushed back his chair. ‘Come  along. If you have broken your fast, we will go to my study and you can  write a note to him.'

* * *

‘Ooh, how dare he do this to me!'

Charity gave a little huff of frustration as she paced up and down the  bedchamber. Ross had locked her in her room and gone out, after  extracting a promise from her that she would not try to escape.                       
       
           



       

Not that such a promise would have stopped her from making the attempt,  but before leaving Wheelston he and Jed had hacked away the ivy that  had climbed so usefully around the window, so that even if she had  smashed the glass to escape she would risk breaking bones in the drop to  the ground some twenty feet below. Not content with that, he had also  taken away her cloak and her slippers, making the idea of walking miles  for help through the snow even more uninviting.

After she had broken her fast Ross had insisted she write to her  father. He had also agreed that she might write to Betty, but he had  dictated the letter for her. It was a simple note, saying that she had  met some old friends at the Beverleys and gone off for supper with them,  only to find herself cut off by the snow and invited to stay on for a  few days. All perfectly reasonable, she had to admit, and Betty would  not doubt the truth of it, at least for a few days. Given that she was  suffering from a heavy cold, her maid might even be glad of the respite.

The sun had set and the temperature was dropping rapidly. Charity went  back to the fire and threw on the last of the coal. She was angry, but  even more than that she was bored by her inactivity. She had just drawn  the curtains and lit the candles around the room when she heard the  sound of footsteps approaching. Relief that she was no longer alone in  the house was subsumed by anger at her captor. There was a particularly  ugly pair of porcelain dogs adorning the mantelshelf and she picked one  up, preparing to hurl it at Ross's head when he came into the room.  However, the voice that requested admission was that of his servant.

‘The master sent me up with the things you asked fer,' said Jed, coming  in with a selection of packages, which he placed on the bed. ‘Cap'n  Durden says that there is hot soup in the kitchen, if you'd like to come  down and join him. When yer ready, that is.'

Having delivered his parcels and his message, Jed retired. Thwarted of  venting her anger upon Ross Durden, Charity put the ornament back in its  place and contented herself with ripping open the packages he had sent  up.

She had to admit he had exceeded her expectations. Her list had been  for a few basic requirements such as a toothbrush and a shawl, but not  only had he purchased a fine hairbrush and a nightgown, he had also  procured a woollen kirtle and bodice for her, together with a fine lawn  chemise, a muslin neckerchief and a pair of serviceable shoes. There was  also a package containing new silk stockings and a pair of  scarlet-ribbon garters, but however grateful she might be for those she  was not going to tell him so!

* * *

Attired in her new garments and feeling very much as if she was playing  the role of a country maid, Charity made her way downstairs to the  kitchen, where an appetising aroma wafted out to greet her as she opened  the door.

‘Where is Jed?' she asked Ross, who was engaged in cutting thick slices from a loaf of bread.

‘He has rooms above the stables and prefers to take his meals there.'

‘Oh.' Charity moved towards the table, most of her anger evaporating.  It was impossible to be cross with a man who was preparing food for her.  One who had purchased goods for her comfort.

‘Thank you for the clothes. I never expected-'

‘I went into York,' he said shortly. ‘The mail had gone through, so the  main road was passable, and you can get most things there, such as  fresh-baked bread.'

He held up the loaf for a moment before he went back to cutting slices from it, the candlelight glinting on the knife blade.

‘I could do that for you,' she offered.

He glanced at her, a glimmer of amusement in his hard eyes.

‘So you can stab me? I think not.'

She blushed and put up her hand to acknowledge that his comment was not too far from the truth.

‘I would not stab you. At least, not if you agreed to let me go.'

‘I cannot do that.'

She sat down at the table.

‘You delivered my letters?'

‘Yes. Or rather, I had them delivered. No one will know from whence they came.'

‘How soon do you expect to hear from my father?'

‘Within a day or two.'

‘You will be disappointed.'

‘We shall see.'

His calm assurance was infuriating. Charity looked across the table at  her captor. His clothes were plain, but although the black curly hair  had been somewhat tamed by a good brushing, there was still something  piratical about him. Perhaps it was the strong lines of his face, that  determined cleft in his chin or the dark eyes beneath the equally dark  brows. In her profession she met a great many men and had become adept  at summing them up-a necessity if she was to keep the more amorous ones  at bay-but Ross Durden intrigued her. She tried to draw him out, but  every attempt failed. Even complimenting him upon the excellence of the  soup received only a nod of acknowledgement. When he escorted her back  to her bedchamber at the end of the meal, she was no nearer to  understanding him.                       
       
           



       

* * *

The next three days followed the same pattern, and Charity was  increasingly frustrated by the inactivity. Each morning after breakfast  she was locked in her room, provided with sufficient coal for the day  and books to entertain her, and when Ross returned she was allowed  downstairs to join him for dinner. He was invariably dour and taciturn,  yet upon occasion she saw the glint in his eyes that reminded her of the  roguish highwayman.

The fourth morning saw a further fall of snow, but it did not prevent Ross from sending Jed out to saddle up his horse.

‘You are going out again?' Charity asked him as she helped to clear away the breakfast dishes.

‘Yes. Into Beringham, to see if Phineas has left a sign that he is  ready to meet me.' He gestured towards the door. ‘It is time for you to  return to your room-'

‘Oh, please do not lock me up again!' She turned towards him, impulsively clutching his shirtsleeve.