The Nightingale Legacy (Legacy 2)

“I won’t ever be anyone’s stepmother, Owen.”

“Yes you will. He will find you. The good Lord knows what he will do to me, but he’ll marry you, Caroline, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” He spoke with such simple confidence that for a moment she felt her blood run cold. Then she realized Owen still saw his father as would a boy, not a man. “You know, Owen, perhaps this adventure will be good for both of us. You are my prisoner, that’s true enough—don’t forget you know I’m mean and strong—but maybe when we reach my aunt, you will see that the world is quite different without your father there to tell you what to say and what to do.”

“He’ll get you,” was all that Owen said, and he sounded as fervent in his belief as a newly converted Christian. “And then you’ll be my stepmother.”

Both of them shuddered at the thought.

A thick raindrop fell on the top of Caroline’s head. “Oh dear,” she said, looking upward, “why can’t anything ever be easy?”

“It’s my father’s doing.”

4

IT RAINED HARD and cold the remainder of that night. Owen and Caroline were both miserable and soaked to the bone, but they’d kept riding throughout that first miserable night, stopping at inns to drink hot ale and dry their clothes in front of the taproom fire. It slowed them down considerably, but there was no hope for it. They stopped at the Black Hair Inn in Dorchester late the following morning to dry themselves and to sleep.

Finally, during the second evening it stopped raining. Caroline dressed quickly, walked to the small window in the bedchamber, and peered out. There were a few horses and a carriage in the yard, several men milling about, but it had stopped raining, thank the good Lord. She stretched her arms over her head. It was nearly eleven o’clock at night. She’d had a refreshing sleep and so had Owen, judging by the occasional snores that had awakened her. They had to get on their way. He was sleeping atop blankets on the floor beside her narrow bed. She lightly kicked him with her toe.

“Come on, Owen, wake up. It’s late and we must get beyond Plymouth before we can rest again. It’s stopped raining so it won’t be so bad. Come on.”

Owen rolled onto his back, opened his eyes, and stared up at her. He blinked. He moaned. She lowered the candle to see him more closely. His face was red and hot with fever.

She just stared down at him. He was ill, damn him, the sod had the nerve to be ill. “Owen, talk to me. Don’t just lie there and moan, talk to me.”

He sent her a blurry look. “I don’t like this, Caroline. I don’t feel well.”

Oh dear, he sounded awful. She knelt down on the floor beside him and laid her palm against his forehead. He was ill, indeed, he was very ill. “Let me help you up and into my bed.”

He wasn’t all that large, but he was nearly limp and she had a good deal of difficulty dragging him into her bed. She covered him with every blanket in the bedchamber, then stood there, staring down at him, wondering what the devil she was going to do.

She couldn’t leave him, but she wanted to. “Well, curse you, Owen. If I didn’t know better I’d think you were doing this on purpose.”

Owen moaned.

“Don’t you dare tell me this is your father’s doing.”

Owen went still as the bedposts.

“Oh, I believe you’re sick. You’re not deceitful enough to make it up.” She took herself downstairs of the Black Hair Inn. The stairs were dusty and narrow and there was very little light. She followed the boisterous male sounds coming from the taproom. She stuck her head in the dim, smoke-filled room and looked about for the owner. He was no taller than she was, round as a barrel, his middle covered with a huge white apron that had more ale stains on it than surely this one day could bring. He was standing near the fireplace speaking to a man who was sitting alone, his legs stretched out in front of him. She slipped into the low-ceilinged room and skirted the wooden tables, going toward the owner.

Suddenly the noise began to die away. Men were staring at her, silently at first, then she heard one fellow say, “Wot’s this, Mackie?”

“Why, ’tis a little birdie, flown in to play wit’ us. Clorie won’t mind sharing us. Little birdie, come ’ere and we’ll give ye a nice brown ale and a little tickle.”

She didn’t look at them, just kept her eyes on the owner, who was still speaking to the man.

A hand caught her dress and pulled her up short.

“’Ey, little ’oney, wot’s yer ’urry? Mackie ’ere wants to giv’ ye a drink right out o’ ’is mug. Eh?”

She turned slowly, not at all frightened, for surely they were just men, common laborers here for a night of drink and companionship, like many of the men who worked on the tenant farms at Honeymead. She gave them a friendly smile. “No thank you, Mr. Mackie. I must speak to the owner, Mr. Tewksberry.”

“Lawks, she called ye Mr. Mackie, jest like ye was somebody important.”

“I am important, ye gull-brain. So, little ’oney, ye wants to speak to old Tewksberry, uh? Ho, that’s a tale, it is, eh wot, Walt? Ye splitting yer take wi’ ’im, little ’un?”

“I don’t have a take, sir. Please let go of my gown.”

Mr. Tewksberry finally looked up.