From where she stood, Jane’s attention was entirely focused on him.

The stranger’s imposing presence seemed highly inappropriate in her late father’s home. Tall and well built, perhaps thirty years old, he was wearing severe black, but he had loosened his plain white stock and removed a leather glove from his left hand. The sun slanting through one of the high windows shone on his curly dark brown hair, springing thickly, vibrantly from his head and curling about his neck. His face was not handsome but strong, striking, disciplined and exceptionally attractive—the expression cool. He was also one of Cromwell’s Roundheads and a man who was familiar to her—a man she had once risked her life for.

The tender feelings that had governed her actions all those years ago had vanished when Cromwell’s Roundheads had killed her father. And now, finding one of them at Bilborough Hall, his very presence defiling the beloved walls, made her shake with anger.

She continued on down the stairs, finding it difficult to conceal the sense of outrage that possessed her on finding this Cromwellian in her home, treating Bilborough Hall as if he owned it. Sensing her presence, he spun round, all taut muscle, lean power and pulsing strength. His gaze was fixed on her as she crossed towards him.

About the Author

HELEN DICKSON was born and lives in South Yorkshire, with her retired farm manager husband. Having moved out of the busy farmhouse where she raised their two sons, she has more time to indulge in her favourite pastimes. She enjoys being outdoors, travelling, reading and music. An incurable romantic, she writes for pleasure. It was a love of history that drove her to writing historical fiction.

Previous novels by the same author:

THE DEFIANT DEBUTANTE

ROGUE’S WIDOW, GENTLEMAN’S WIFE

TRAITOR OR TEMPTRESS

WICKED PLEASURES

(part of Christmas By Candlelight) A SCOUNDREL OF CONSEQUENCE FORBIDDEN LORD SCANDALOUS SECRET, DEFIANT BRIDE FROM GOVERNESS TO SOCIETY BRIDE MISTRESS BELOW DECK THE BRIDE WORE SCANDAL SEDUCING MISS LOCKWOOD

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as ebooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Destitute On
His Doorstep

Helen Dickson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Prologue

The morning mist was thinning when the solitary figure on horseback turned for home. The slender form dressed in breeches and doublet, the shining black hair trimmed to the shoulders and framing a heart-shaped face in soft, natural curls, could be mistaken for that of a youth, but was, in fact a girl.

Suddenly she saw a handful of Roundheads on reconnaissance bivouacked around a fire that glowed like cats’ eyes in the gloom. Aware of the threatened danger to herself, she rode for cover into a thicket, just as a large contingent of Royalist soldiers appeared so suddenly that there was no time for the Roundheads to sound the alarm and prepare themselves.

In these fearful days of the Civil War, when it was no simple matter to draw a line between skirmishes and combats, actions and battles, the Royalists, having reached the remarkable conclusion that the King’s crown was settled upon his head again, were convinced they would crush the Parliamentarians. For weeks this Royalist troop had ridden about the countryside, harrying enemy patrols. The rising sun reflected upon the pike tips and armour, and except for the differing coloured sashes—red for the Royalists and orange for Parliament—there was little to tell them apart. But the arrogant expression on the face of the man who rode at the head of the Royalists, and the gold chain hanging on his breast, proclaimed him to be their leader.

What followed was chaotic for the Roundheads. The Royalists fought with so much resolution and audacity, and with such a clamour of swords, the butt end of muskets and shot that the surprised Roundheads must have thought they had arrived at Hell’s gates. The outcome was inevitable. The Royalists outnumbered them by ten to one, and the Roundheads must have known it was impossible for so few of them to triumph over so many. The fighting was fierce but brief. Roundhead losses were relatively severe, and those who survived were rounded up and bound.

Without so much as a glance around him, the Royalist, Captain Jacob Atkins, sat his mount, impassive and cold, his bloodied sword still clutched in his hand. All his attention was focused on the leader of this bunch of Roundheads, Colonel Francis Russell. Unable to believe his luck in coming upon his sworn enemy unexpectedly, his gaze never wavered. His one remaining eye was a slit of pure venom and something glinted through it, like some predatory fish swimming just beneath the surface. So much hatred emanated from this man that the girl still in hiding nearby shivered as the Roundhead Colonel was seized and led away with his fellow soldiers to await his fate. They were being taken to an immediate holding area—in this case the church in the small market town of Avery.

In his buff coat and carbine and orange-tawny coloured sash—the colours of his captain-general, the Earl of Essex—his proud head bare of the triple-barred helmet, which he’d had no time to put on, the Colonel rode stiff backed and tall in the saddle and not without dignity, looking straight ahead. Nothing showed of the pain and humiliation of defeat which lacerated his fierce pride.

The girl’s attention had been drawn to him during the skirmish as he had tried to fight off this Royalist force, confirming her assertions that Parliament might have control of the country, but the Royalists were crushed but not yet beaten. The Colonel must have known what the outcome would be, but despite this he had fought gallantly, wielding his sword as the girl had seen no other do, while his compatriots were cut down. There was a hardness concealed within a ruthless instinct for survival that made him formidable. The girl wondered what demon drove him. The ferocious wildness that had spurred him on to slay his enemies, sparing himself no hardship in the process, had gained him her admiration.

Despite her young age she was an avid follower of the Civil War and the men who controlled both sides. She knew who Colonel Russell was, as did every Royalist soldier present. As one of Cromwell’s ironsides he was an impressive figure. Without doubt he was a superb trainer of horsemen and a tactical leader in Cromwell’s recently formed New Model Army, having gained a larger-than-life reputation for invulnerability in every battle in which he had fought, demonstrating a valour above and beyond the call of duty.

A supporter of the King and confident that she had nothing to fear from the Royalists—she was well acquainted with Captain Atkins, for he was her stepmother’s brother—the girl rode into the open. ‘What will they do to him?’ she quietly enquired of a young soldier as they watched the prisoners herded off in the direction of the town.

The soldier glanced at the young stranger he took to be a youth, wondering briefly where he had come from and what he was doing there, but then he shrugged and turned away with little interest. ‘Atkins will give him no quarter. Russell alone is more dangerous to the Royalist cause than an entire troop of Roundheads. With Atkins it’s personal. They’ve met once before, at Newbury, and there isn’t a day goes by when Atkins doesn’t curse the injury inflicted on him by this Roundhead’s sword. It took his eye out, and it almost cost him his life. Atkins has vowed vengeance. He’ll see to it that the Roundhead doesn’t live to fight another battle.’

‘He’ll bring the wrath of the whole Parliament force down on him if he does that. It would not be in his own best interests. Colonel Russell is an active and daring commander, highly thought of by Cromwell himself. An exchange must be negotiated.’

The soldier turned and looked at her grim-faced. ‘Not in this case. This is different. Woe be it for me to speak ill of my superiors, but Atkins is an ugly, vicious bastard, a man devoid of any kind of honour. He deals out his own style of justice—thinks he can do what he likes, and if he thinks he can get away with shooting a Roundhead officer, even one as highly valued as this one, he’ll do it without batting his eye. You wouldn’t want to witness how he deals with his enemies. He inflicts pain first, lets them stew a while, then …’ he made a slicing gesture with the side of his hand across his throat ‘… that’s it.’

The soldier moved off, leaving the girl to watch the Roundhead’s departing figure. Shock and anger at the injustice of the situation rose like bile inside her. Colonel Russell was a Roundhead and therefore her enemy, but he was too worthy a man to die in such a sadistically cruel manner that was nothing short of murder.

Much of her knowledge had come from her father, a prominent Royalist. He had told her that when officers were captured, on each side it was normal for commanders to negotiate exchanges of officers of equivalent rank, and they could even be paroled on the promise never to fight again, but it would seem Captain Atkins made up his own rules. He was to show no such leniency to this particular Roundhead who had been a thorn in his side for too long. To shoot him would be a flagrant breach of the rules of war, but Captain Atkins, a cruel, sadistic man, would not be swayed from his decision. What hope had this Roundhead of being spared by such a man? And he was such a fine man.

Raising her head and squaring her shoulders resolutely, one thing the girl knew, she would not in all conscience let them kill this brave man.

When she came to Avery she pulled her hat low over her eyes, though with such a large influx of soldiers all taking care of their own needs, no one paid her any attention. She rode up the winding, cobbled street between gabled and thatched houses and made straight for the church, which was set apart from the centre of the town.

It wasn’t difficult to find out what had happened to the Colonel. When she saw a couple of men drag him out of a building adjacent to the church, none too ceremoniously, it was evident that Captain Atkins had lost no time in putting his victim to the torture. He was as quiet and still as a dead man, but he wasn’t dead—she could hear him breathing; she heard Captain Atkins order the guards to take him to the vestry, to keep him away from the other prisoners until dark, when his fate would be sealed.

The men stood guard over their prisoner, grudgingly, for all around them their fellow soldiers, celebrating their small victory over the Roundheads, were making merry with the liquor, which was in plentiful supply in the town’s ale houses.

With a combination of her wits and a goodly amount of this strong brew, which the girl plied on these guards, she soon had them snoring. Even though she knew she was putting her own life in danger, she was determined to get the Colonel out of the vestry. After obtaining the key from the pocket of one of the guards and picking up the discarded jacket from the other, careful not to draw attention to herself, she let herself in.

The interior was dimly lit by light slanting in through a high window. The Colonel was sitting propped up against the wall. Thankfully his eyes were open and clear. The girl was slender and pleasant looking, and her dark eyes, though often defiant, were gentle. In that moment an emotion that was completely alien to her gentle nature almost overwhelmed her as she stared mutely at the slumped figure. She hated Captain Atkins for the cold and cruel calculation of which this Roundhead Colonel had been the victim. He had been treated with savage cruelty. His dark hair, blackened by gunpowder, was soaked in sweat. His handsome face was battered and bleeding, and his burned and bloodied and mangled right hand he held cradled to his chest.

Swallowing the nausea that rose in her throat and gathering all her courage about her like a cloak, she went towards him. Putting a finger to her lips, she said quietly, ‘I’ve come to get you out.’ She looked towards the door, her nervousness growing with every minute. ‘My plan is simple. But we must act quickly.’

The Colonel’s face was as rigid as if it had been carved of stone. ‘It is a brave plan and I am grateful for the thought which your heart and sense of justice dictate, but you must see it is impossible.’

In an attempt to raise his spirits, she gave him a grin of confidence. ‘Not as impossible as you think.’

‘Is it not? Tell me. Why should I trust you?’

‘I speak out of respect, not insolence. I am no chivalrous knight in gleaming armour. I saw you fight. I’ll not stand by and watch Colonel Atkins destroy you. Are you able to walk?’ He nodded. The girl handed him the guard’s coat. Out of her pocket she drew a rose-pink scarf. ‘Take off your coat and put this on. I’ll help you. It may be a tight fit, but it’s the best I can do.’ She passed him her wide brimmed hat. ‘You can wear this. Pull it well down.’ Dragging a table over to the wall, agile and nimble on her feet, she climbed on top and shoved open the window. As she looked down at the prisoner, despite her fear her grin was mischievously wicked. ‘Don’t worry. I don’t expect you to climb up here, but when the guards find you gone, they will think this is how you escaped.’

Jumping down, she helped him to his feet and to remove his coat, careful of his injured hand. Assisting him into the guard’s coat and grimacing when it came nowhere near fastening over the Colonel’s broad chest, knowing there was nothing she could do about it, she passed the Royalist colours over his shoulder.

The girl laughed when she saw the look of disgust that crossed the Colonel’s face at having this final indignity forced on him. ‘This could save your life and lose it in the same day if you are not careful.’

‘How so?’

‘It will get you away from here, but if you don’t take it off before you reach your fellow Roundheads, they may shoot you for a Royalist without asking questions.’

Tearing a strip of white cloth from one of the vestment robes hanging on the back of the door and concealing the Colonel’s coat beneath them, she set about tending the wounded hand as best she could. The mutilation appalled her, not because of the gory sight, but because it was his right hand, his fighting hand, and without it his future as a soldier—if he was successful in escaping Captain Atkins—was over.

The colonel shuddered, groaning. As he watched her bandage his injured hand his voice was harsh with bitterness. ‘Dear Lord in heaven! Could Atkins not have dealt me another wound but that? He’s made damned sure my sword hand is useless.’

Always practical, the girl said, ‘You have another hand, Colonel, a perfectly good one. If you are half the man you are reported to be, you will learn to use it. There will be other battles to fight before this business is done. Now come. The more important matter of saving your life concerns me now.’

Going to the door, she opened it a crack and looked out. Seeing the guards were as she had left them and the soldiers who weren’t clogging the taverns carousing on the village green, she beckoned the Colonel forwards. ‘Go round the church to the back. Walk through the graveyard and when you come to the gate let yourself out and turn to your left. Halfway down the street turn left again down an alley way. There you will find a horse waiting for you.’

Wonder, astonishment and, finally, admiration glowed in the Colonel’s eyes. Before slipping out he paused to look at the young stranger he fully believed to be a youth. There was a strange intensity in the pale face under its unruly mop of curly black shining hair. ‘You’ve thought of everything. It’s a scheme worthy of a master planner.’

The gratitude in his voice took the edge off the girl’s fear. ‘Promise me you will take care of the horse. His name is Arthur.’

Colonel Russell frowned with concern. ‘It is your horse?’

She nodded.

‘And yet you are willing to part with it.’

‘There is no other way you can get away from the village. All I ask is that you treat him well.’

‘I promise you no harm will come to it by my hand. You help me even though you know what will happen to you if you caught. Your age will not protect you. You will be hanged for a traitor.’

‘I know that, sir.’

‘Why are you helping me?’

‘This is war, Colonel. Captain Atkins may be of my persuasion, but that doesn’t mean to say that I have to like him. I don’t hold with personal vendettas. I could not stand by and watch him kill an honourable man.’

‘Thank you. Human nature is full of surprises. You are a remarkable young man. I am grateful. Avery, which is staunchly behind Parliament, has been taken by the Royalists, but it is only a matter of time before we take it back. Can I not persuade you to change sides? We could do with men like you.’

She would have laughed out loud had she not thought he might see through her deception. ‘I am not yet old enough to fight, sir. If the war is not over when I am of age, then my sympathies are firmly with the Royalists.’

‘And your name? At least tell me that?’

She grinned, a mischievous, wicked twinkle dancing in her dark eyes. After a moment’s thought, she said, ‘You may call me Tom, sir.’ She inclined her shining head in a respectful bow, the smile widening on her lips. ‘Glad to be of service.’

‘God be with you, lad. I’ll never forget the debt I owe you for saving my life.’ With that he slipped away.

When he had disappeared round the church and she had locked the door, covering her tracks, she put the key back in the guard’s pocket. She was elated, considering all the danger to have been worthwhile to acquire Colonel Russell’s esteem and to help him escape the odious Captain Atkins. Thrusting her hands into her own pockets, she left Avery and followed the road that led to her home. Already she missed her beloved Arthur, but, knowing he would aid a brave man escape the clutches of Captain Atkins and that he would be well cared for, she didn’t mind so much.

On finding his prisoner had escaped, in his rage Jacob Atkins came to two decisions, which he would never alter as long as he lived. The first was very simple. One day, he would meet that accursed Colonel again—and when he did, he would kill him.

Chapter One

Jane looked with distaste and a cringing fear at the chair Jacob Atkins would have her bend over so he could beat her with the thin cane which he was casually slapping against his booted right leg. His one remaining eye held a strange pinprick of light that Jane, with a sinking heart, knew boded ill for her. It would not be the first time she had felt the sting of that cane. Red welts usually criss-crossed her back for days following a whipping. He seemed to take special delight in marking her bare flesh.

‘Please do not use that on me.’ Her voice quavered. ‘I have done nothing so terrible that deserves a beating.’

‘It is a punishment you will receive, Jane, and as usual you are being impertinent.’

Jane hesitated, then, her terror bolstering her courage, though she was sadly aware that it wouldn’t make any difference to what was about to happen, she raised her head bravely. ‘There is nothing wrong with trying to defend myself. These—these punishments have to stop,’ she said haltingly. ‘I am not one of your daughters. I will not be beaten into submission.’

Jane watched with dreadful, terror-filled fascination as his face turned a dangerous crimson; the colour of it appeared to leak into his eye. She held his gaze with something like defiance, her proud nature rebelling against compliance to this man. She just hoped he wouldn’t notice how violently she trembled, the fear instilling uncertainty of what form of punishment he’d use on her if she openly defied him. While her lovely face seemed almost without expression, her eyes betrayed her inner fear as she stared back at him.

When he moved to stand directly in front of her, her heart sank and her blood ran cold when he raised his hand and she felt his fingers brush her neck. On a gasp she struck at his hand, only to find her own as quickly imprisoned. He seized a handful of her long, thick hair, pulling her head back with spiteful force.

‘Oh, no, Jane. You have much to learn,’ he hissed, his mouth close to her ear. ‘If I want to touch you, touch you I shall.’

She stood rigid and silent, his touch making her skin crawl. A violent shivering shook her from head to foot when he released her hair and his grip tightened around her neck with ever-increasing brutality. With helpless fury she looked into his eye.

Jacob gave a slow, satisfied smile. How he craved to run his fingers over the white skin beneath the dress of this girl while she trembled before him, to look on her nakedness and see her proud, complacent smile turn into a grimace of terror as she cried and pleaded for mercy. Just as suddenly as he had touched her he pulled himself together. The smile faded from his face and his hand released her.

‘How dare you question my authority, Jane, my judgement. I would advise you to obey me immediately or go to your room until I give you permission to leave it. I have to go out and will not be back until tomorrow afternoon, at which time we shall continue this discussion and I will consider the punishment you deserve.’

‘By all means lock me in my room,’ she uttered tremulously. ‘I would rather that than be beaten by you for merely riding out alone. I am nineteen years old and what I have done does not deserve a thrashing.’

Jacob watched her closely. As she stood before him, he felt a certain satisfaction in knowing how much she feared him—hated him. She was quite magnificent as she held her head high and her eyes shone with bravely held tears. But she had defied him and he would not have it. He would make a show of his authority. The girl, his late sister’s stepdaughter, was full grown, a strong and healthy girl with too much pride, and he would not rest until he had thrashed that pride out of her.

Jane Lucas was a beauty. Her sun-warmed flesh and peach-coloured lips and her warm dark eyes were accentuated by the midnight blackness of her hair.

‘Do not think you can escape, Jane. Do you remember what happened the last time you ran away from me?’ He laughed, delighting in the horror that suddenly appeared in her eyes, for she had tried to escape him—twice—and each time he had found her and brought her back. Her punishment had been severe, and she had been kept in her room until she was fit to be seen. ‘You will take your punishment,’ he said, smacking the palm of his hand with the cane. ‘I promise you that.’

He stood directly before her, and Jane could clearly see the huge bulge that filled the front of his breeches. He was breathing rapidly, his face suffused with colour. A horror so great, so overwhelming, a thought so preposterous, so disgusting, was running through her mind like quicksilver. Surely he would not subject her to … Dear God, no, but then … Yes. Jacob Atkins was perverted and he could and he would if he had his way.

At fifteen years old when she had come to live in his house, she had been wise enough to recognise that he enjoyed the spectacle of degrading a gently nurtured girl even more than he would enjoy the physical act of ravishing her. Now, one glance at his flushed features laid bare the lascivious nature of his private thoughts, and the humiliation that those thoughts were directed at her was too dreadful to contemplate, but they told her that he intended the second pleasure to follow the first.

All their lives his daughters had suffered pain and fear at his hands. They had always been afraid of him, even when their mother had been alive and she had done her best to interpose between her rage-filled husband and cowering children. Now grown women, they were still meek and obedient and punished for the slightest transgression. The youngest, Elizabeth seventeen and Anne a year older, were vulnerable and weak, whereas Hester could withstand his indifference, his cruelty, for, apart from the beatings, which seemed to give him some perverse pleasure, he barely infringed on their daily lives.

He had made them what they were. They were fed and clothed and slept in warm beds, but they were nervous and terrified of their own shadows, always looking over their shoulders to see if their father was watching them. Nobody could stand against Jacob Atkins—nobody—not even Jane. But somehow, some time, she would make good her escape. She would leave his house for ever and go back to …

There was a place she knew where time went by on widespread wings, a place where she had known nothing but happiness and love and been allowed to grow and flourish as every young woman should be able to do. But here in Jacob Atkins’s house time plodded wearily on, slowly, painfully on calloused feet. With her stepmother dead and finding herself now quite alone and increasingly the target for her step-uncle’s unwelcome attentions, she knew it was time to leave his house—to go home to Bilborough Hall.

Jacob turned his back on her to show his absolute contempt—or so he would have her believe, but the truth was that he would not be content until he had accomplished what he had set out to do, which was to make her understand the rules she would have to live by in his house, and by the time he had finished with her he was certain she would obey those rules. Moreover, his body’s almost uncontrollable desire for her had to be slaked, which was why, when he had triumphed over her flimsy defences, he had decided to take her for a wife.

‘You are disobedient, Jane—indeed, you seem to enjoy openly defying me. If you do so one more time, I shall be forced to take further measures.’ He turned to face her. ‘You have no idea how cruel I can be.’

He was wrong. Jane knew the cruelties he was capable of inflicting on people. The pain his punishments elicited had heightened her dread of him. So great had been her ordeals during these years at his hands that she likened his house to a torture chamber.

Looking at Jacob Atkins now, that was the moment she realised that he had slipped over some invisible line between cruel viciousness and into madness. His eye flickered at her and a fleck of white frothed at the corners of his mouth. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and his face was scarlet with some inner rage.

Repulsed, Jane whirled about and fled the room. Hester met her on the stairs. Her usual pleasant smile was not in evidence as she looked at Jane with concern, seeing not for the first time the signs of distress.

‘Are you hurt?’ she enquired softly.

Jane shook her head. ‘No, Hester—at least no more than usual. I’ve been ordered to go to my room.’ Through the mists of shock and fear she darted a nervous look around to make quite sure no one was listening. ‘I think it’s time I left this house,’ she whispered fiercely. ‘I fear for my safety if I remain here any longer. Your father will not be satisfied until he has beaten me into the ground. He is to be away until tomorrow afternoon. Enough time for me to prepare. I intend to be away at first light. This time I am determined, Hester.’

Picking up her skirts, Jane carried on up the stairs. Hester hurried after her.

‘But is that wise?’ Hester asked, on entering Jane’s room, her concern evident. ‘He will come after you. He caught up with you the last time you tried to flee—and—and he hurt you so much, Jane.’

‘I know, but last time I had nowhere to go. This time I shall go to Bilborough.’

Hester stared at her and paled. ‘Bilborough? But—you can’t go back there. Do you forget the reasons why you had to flee your home? The villagers accused Gwen of being a witch. They wanted to see her hanged—and they accused you of conspiracy. You will be in as much danger there as you will be if you remain here. People have long memories, Jane.’

Jane paled. What Hester said was true. ‘You are right, Hester, but with no family of my own I have nowhere else to go. It’s the only place I can go. I truly am between the devil and the deep blue sea—but I think I would rather take my chance at Bilborough than remain here with that man another day.’

‘But witches are associated with all that is evil. It is dangerous to be accused of being a witch, as the most common punishment is death.’

‘I know. No one liked Gwen. In their ignorance the inhabitants of Avery thought the woman my father married was unnatural. Their prejudice was an emotion that ran deep, twisting their reasoning until they believed she really was a witch. Gwen was just a herb woman and known as a healer. Many benefitted from her carefully mixed potions. She also possessed great beauty and charm. Men’s heads were turned when she passed by; driven by jealousy, the women maliciously pointed her out to the witch finder who came to Avery one day in the summer of ‘48, falsely accusing her of poisoning a woman and her unborn child.’

‘I thank God she managed to escape their vindictiveness before she was examined,’ Hester said. ‘My only regret is that she did not live long when she reached Northampton. Things might have been different if she had. She was the only person I knew who could stand up to my father. If you are set on going back there, Jane, I shall pray you do not have to bear the brunt of the malicious hatred that might still fester in the breasts of those who consider they have been cheated out of hanging a witch.’

‘So do I, Hester. But it’s a long time ago and I’m hopeful that things will have changed.’

‘Then if you’re set on leaving, I’m sure I can be of help in some way.’

Jane smiled and clasped her hand. She was deeply touched by the sincerity in Hester’s voice. With her soft blonde hair and pale blue eyes, Hester was a modest young woman, with a retiring and wary nature, which was hardly surprising considering the harsh treatment meted out to her by her father.

‘Dearest Hester, ever practical and always kind. Ever since Gwen brought me here you have been a pillar of strength. As for helping me—you shouldn’t. You know your father will find out. He always does and then you will be in trouble as well as me.’

Hester smiled. ‘I’m prepared to risk it. Sometimes I fear what will become of us—but it’s right that you go. At least you have somewhere to escape to, whereas we will have to stay under his authority until he finds us husbands,’ Hester retorted, in a voice made harsh by the hostility of her thoughts. ‘Indeed, Jane, I cannot wait. Nothing could be as bad as this—no man as cruel as he is. His behaviour is abnormal, deranged. I believe his mind is twisted—in fact, there are times when I am sure he is quite mad. How else can his cruelties by explained?’ Tears were glistening in her eyes and on her lashes when she asked, ‘Is there always a man to be found behind women’s suffering?’

Her words were met by silence, then Jane took out a handkerchief and handed it to her. Jane was worried about what would happen when Jacob Atkins discovered she had left. ‘It certainly looks that way, Hester. God help us all,’ she whispered. ‘I believe there is.’

With her few possessions secured to the back of the horse and Scamp, her little dog, curled up in front of her, with the end of her journey in sight, Jane focused her eyes on the road ahead. With the war not long over, the countryside was infested with footpads, vagrants and displaced soldiers. She was armed with an ancient matchlock pistol, one of a brace that she had taken from the house. She would not be afraid to use it should anyone try to accost her.

After a long and weary ride, having reached the borders of the Bilborough estate in the heart of Cambridgeshire, suffering from aching limbs and a severe headache, she rode slowly. She tried to ignore her discomfort in the joy of being close to Bilborough Hall, telling herself there would be plenty of time to rest when they were home.

She was going home in peace—at least, it was peace of a sort, for although England was now a Commonwealth, the Civil War had ended. She let her gaze move lovingly over the achingly familiar landscape. The countryside around them was beautiful, the land rich and fertile, with ancient woods full of game and huge oaks and elms stretching to the sky like a benediction. Marsh birds came in flocks to settle on a large lake, wheeling and calling overhead. Corn standing tall and golden in the fields indicated that harvest wasn’t far away.

Halting her horse to let a young swineherd cross the road to the next field, she noted sheep and cattle grazing contentedly in meadows; in another, half-a-dozen splendid-looking mares had foaled. She was impressed. Long before her father had died all the horses at Bilborough had been requisitioned by the army. She wondered where all these horses had come from.

There was no sign of neglect here, as had been the case of other manors she had passed through. Despite the ten years of Civil War, it was plain that their steward, Silas Thorpe, had done his work well, and was a good taskmaster in managing the tenants and obtaining from them the requisite labour.

Jane’s eyes had been fixed on the horizon for the past hour. At last she was rewarded when the turrets and rooftops of the hall came into view. In recent years she had often thought about the past and now, seeing the pink-and-gold stone walls, with ivy growing around the facing windows, it brought it all back with a strange force. With poignancy she found herself thinking of her father and all he had tried to do for her. Sadly she had never known her mother, who had died shortly after her birth. The memory of her father’s death flashed into her mind and brought tears to her eyes. She blinked them aside. Bilborough Hall had been a place of peace and happiness, and she vowed it would be again. It was home, and this was where her heart was, for always.

‘There it is, Scamp. Does the sight of it not gladden your heart?’

In reply, the little dog twitched his ears and licked her hand. Her eyes switched to the left of Bilborough, settling on the picturesque rooftops of Avery in the distance. On a note of gravity she said, ‘I wish I could say the same for the town.’

She was remembering the last time she had been there, when Gwen, her stepmother, had been attacked by hostile locals, who had accused her of being a witch. Jane felt her heart contract with remembered fear.

‘It will be better now, Scamp. What happened was a long time ago. Things have moved on and people forget. Please God the people of Avery have done so.’

Not to let any unpleasant memories mar her homecoming, she thrust them away. Dropping Scamp to the ground, she laughed joyously, gathering the reins firmly in her hands. ‘Time for some exercise, Scamp. We are home at last and I can’t wait to get there. Let’s see who can get there first.’ With a tap of her crop and a kick of her heels against the horse’s flanks, she took off in a flurry of skirts.

As a child, no one but Jane’s father had been able to control this wayward, headstrong girl. In Northampton Jacob Atkins had subdued her spirit and it had lain dormant but for ever simmering. And now, within sight of Bilborough, it was resurrected and ready to fly free.

Jane’s father had been killed in a skirmish near Oxford, leaving his widow with not a penny in the house. The country at that time was racked with civil war, plague, food shortages and high prices. Gwen had no liking for Bilborough Hall or the people of Avery, who on the whole supported Parliament and were making their lives at Bilborough a misery. When the threat of being charged with witchcraft became a reality, Gwen had fled Bilborough, taking Jane with her, and returned to live with her widowed brother at the family home in Northampton, much to Jane’s disgust, who, despite her fondness for her stepmother, had thought she should do as other women with absentee husbands were doing all over England and play the soldier and stay and defend her home with prudence and valour.

Jacob Atkins had prospered in the provision of trade before the war. He had married the widow of a cloth merchant, who had brought him a small fortune and given him three daughters. He had promised Gwen on her deathbed that he would look after Jane until she married, but having his sights set on Bilborough Hall since the estate was not entailed to the male line and was now Jane’s inheritance, he had a mind to marry her himself.

His anger would be fierce when he returned home and found her gone, but Jane had no qualms about leaving. When she’d put the house behind her, she’d felt like a gilded bird freed from its cage. But she feared that he would come after her and threaten her life and her future. Every waking moment from now on she would expect to see him. The picture of him coming after her for revenge was so bright, so vivid—inescapable. But she would not regret her decision to leave.

As she galloped towards Bilborough Hall with Scamp running along beside her, she was unaware of the three mounted men who had paused to watch her on the edge of a copse, their open-mouthed expressions revealing their astonishment and at the same time their masculine appreciation.

‘Good Lord! Where the devil did she come from?’ one of them exclaimed.

‘Wonder who she is?’ asked one of his companions.

The third man and the employer of the other two, Colonel Francis Russell, his eyes also following the female rider as she flashed across his sights in a blur of red, her long black hair streaming out behind her like a jaunty pennant on a ship’s masthead, replied, ‘I’m sure the young woman, whoever she is, must be a stranger to these parts—dressed as she is.’ His eyes sparkling with appreciation, he chuckled low. ‘If he were to see her, Justice Littleton would lose no time in having her whipped and clapped in the pillory.’

Francis continued to watch the young rider a moment longer before turning his horse and heading for home, for there was something totally distracting about watching a young woman racing a horse across the countryside without regard to how fast it was moving, or how uneven the ground stretching out ahead of her.

Jane rode through the arched gateway and into the courtyard. A single walnut tree gave shade in one corner. As she slid from the saddle, her horse, sensing that he was at journey’s end, dropped his head and was twitching his lips in expectation of a bag of oats, while the flies settled on him.

Facing the house, she felt strangely lightheaded. Her whole body ached and she was hot and thirsty. The heat and sun had drained her energy and she was in desperate need of food. Having left so abruptly, she had sent no warning of her arrival, and she wondered what she would find.

Walking to a gate in one corner, she shoved it open and gazed at the garden spread out before her. The gardeners had kept up their work, at least. The lawn was freshly cut, the ornamental hedges trimmed. Sweet-scented roses grew up trellises lining the long terrace. A sundial gleamed gold on its marble column and a fountain sent up jets of crystal into the late afternoon sky, misting the grass brightly starred with meadow flowers.

The quiet and the stillness all around her was profound. She took a deep breath, drinking in everything she saw and felt. To live in such surroundings as these, without the hurly burly of Northampton was luxury indeed. Closing the gate, she turned her attention to the house. Climbing the shallow flight of wide stone steps to the door, she let herself quietly inside.

The spacious, oak-panelled hall was cool, the air scented with a subtle blend of beeswax and herbs. Elaborately ornamented stonework clearly evidenced the artistry of talented masons of bygone years in the fluted archways that set apart the great hall located at the heart of the manor. Two servants passing through merely glanced her way, their voices hushed to murmurs as they disappeared into the shadows. Without moving, Jane watched them go. The warmth and welcome of the house embraced her, bringing with it a sense of well-being. She felt herself begin to relax, the tensions of the journey easing out of her, but her head was aching terribly.

Two large wolfhounds stretched out in front of the hearth. Jane, who had grown up with dogs roaming the house and grounds, showed no fear of them, although these two she did not recognise, which caused her to lift her brow in curious wonder. Smiling, she went to them.

‘Hello, you two.’

Sitting up, their tails thumping the floor, they sniffed and then licked her outstretched hand, and then she squatted down to pet them in turn.

Her attention was distracted when an elderly servant, her arms full of fresh linen she was about to take up the stairs, paused to turn and look at her. It was Mary Preston, who had been housekeeper at Bilborough Hall since before

Jane was born. The older woman’s mouth gaped open in amazement, her eyes opening wide in recognition, and she gasped. Retracing her steps, she carefully placed her burden on a central heavy round table before crossing to the young woman as quickly as her ample frame would allow.

‘Mistress Jane? Oh, mercy me! It is you. I thought my old eyes were playing tricks.’

‘Yes, Mary,’ Jane replied, moving into the centre of the hall and kissing the housekeeper’s cheek affectionately, ‘it’s me, and glad to be home at last.’

‘Home? Oh—why … goodness me! You gave me quite a turn.’

‘I’m sorry if I frightened you,’ Jane apologised.

In her black dress and white apron, her iron-grey hair covered by a white cap, outwardly Mary had changed little in the past four years, but on closer inspection, Jane saw that a look of anxiety had replaced the merry twinkle that had been for ever present in her eyes. She was a good, hard-working woman, and she had served the Lucas family faithfully over the years. On leaving Bilborough for Northampton, her stepmother had dismissed the staff and left Mary and Silas as caretakers until the time came when they could return.

‘How are you, Mary? Well, I hope.’

‘A few more aches and pains, that’s all. Of course I’ve worried about you, so far away, and I was sorry to learn that the mistress had died. But just look at you. I see you’ve fleshed out, but you’ve not changed.’ Her eyes suddenly swam with tears. ‘You look more like your dear mother.’ Jane’s skin was unblemished and smooth as the petals of a rose. Her thick black hair fell about her shoulders in a tumble of glossy curls, and her graceful figure was full bosomed and slender waisted, her dark eyes aglow with warmth. ‘And I haven’t seen a gown that colour since the dreary shackles of the Commonwealth began to tighten.’

As if in defiance of the new laws passed by the Government, Jane was indeed wearing a colourful gown—poppy red, in fact. She laughed, and couldn’t help teasing Mary. ‘Would you rather I came back dressed like a black crow in Puritan garb? I’m not afraid of Oliver Cromwell, Mary—not him or all his ironsides. Besides, he isn’t anywhere near here.’

As Jane did a quick turn to take everything in, she failed to see the sudden pallor on the housekeeper’s face and her look of agitation as her eyes darted towards the door.

‘And how have you fared, Mary, these past four years?’

The housekeeper shook her head sadly. ‘After all the heartache and anxieties that have befallen us since the wars started, on the whole I can’t grumble. I’ve always had food to eat and a roof over my head. Too many good royalists have lost everything.’

‘We’ve all suffered,’ Jane replied, suddenly sombre, ‘and there are many Royalists still in hiding after Worcester with a price on their heads. If there’s any justice in the world, King Charles II will come into his own before too long.’

Mary shook her head sadly. ‘Dreams, Mistress Jane. That’s all they are.’

‘Maybe so, Mary, but without dreams we achieve nothing. But,’ she said on a more cheerful note, ‘there’ll be no talk of war today. I’m here now, home at last, and from what I saw on my way to the house, Silas has done an excellent job. It’s so good to be home, Mary. You can’t imagine what it means to me. I want you to tell me everything that has happened.’ Mary opened her mouth to speak but Jane gave her no time to answer before ploughing excitedly on. ‘I’ll just go and take a look around upstairs. I’ll need some hot water for a bath—I feel so hot and dusty after the journey,’ she said, skipping towards the stairs.

Mary’s arm came out to stop her. ‘Wait—there’s something I should tell you, something you should know before …’

Jane was deaf to anything she had to say as she went up the wide staircase to explore the house, trying to ignore her worsening headache and her aching legs in the joy of being home. She smiled at the servants as they went about their work. She certainly hadn’t expected to see so many; in fact, the house seemed fully staffed. Fresh-cut flowers filled vases and the silver gleamed. Floorboards, oak panelling and furniture were highly polished, and was she mistaken or were there some pieces she hadn’t seen before?

With no one living in the house for four years, she had expected the rooms to smell fusty with dust everywhere, but they didn’t, which she considered strange.

Jane paused in the doorway to her old bedchamber and her expression became one of puzzlement. Tentatively she took a few steps forwards. As she did so she found she was able to distinguish the things around her better and she began to take in the details of the plain but sumptuous decor. The beautiful eggshell blue-and-silver curtains and bed hangings she had chosen many years ago were gone. Now the bed was entirely hung with midnight-blue velvet, quite plain and unadorned, save for the gold cords that held back the heavy curtains. The windows were hung with the same fabric as the bed. A pair of exquisitely carved ivory statuettes along with a chessboard of amethyst and silver, shining in the light, stood on a table by the window. On either side of the table were two comfortable leather chairs, which she had never seen before, and the portrait of her father, which had hung over the dresser, and the miniatures of her mother and herself on its surface, had been removed.

Who was responsible for the alterations and why? On one of the bedside tables was a leatherbound book by the sixteenth-century popular dramatist Christopher Marlowe. A scent hung in the air. It was a scent that was unfamiliar to her, a masculine scent. She was more bewildered than ever, for there was something intensely personal about the scent and the changes. Moving slowly round the bed, on the other bedside table there was a pistol. Holding her riding crop in one hand, she picked the weapon up with the other and gazed at it in confusion. She was curious, but had no time to dwell on the changes, for at the sound of several horses clattering into the courtyard, she hurried to a window and looked down.

Three horsemen had drawn up in front of the house, but only one dismounted. Turning back towards the stairs she scowled, in no mood for visitors. What did they want? Treading quietly, she paused halfway down the stairs to observe the man who had entered, removing his hat, the heels of his wide-topped boots sounding loud on the stone floor. His presence seemed to fill the hall with authority. He went to the large hearth where a fire struggled to blaze. In an attempt to bring it back to life, he kicked a log into the centre of the dull glow, moving back when it sprung to life.

From where she stood, Jane’s attention was entirely focused on him. The stranger’s imposing presence seemed highly inappropriate in her late father’s home. Tall and well built and perhaps thirty years old, he was wearing severe black, but he had loosened his plain white stock and removed a leather glove from his left hand. The sun slanting through one of the high windows shone on his curly dark brown hair springing thickly, vibrantly, from his head and curling about his neck. His face was not handsome but strong, striking, disciplined and exceptionally attractive, the expression cool. He was also one of Cromwell’s Roundheads, a man who was familiar to her, a man she had once risked her life for.

The tender feelings that had governed her actions all those years ago had vanished when Cromwell’s Roundheads had killed her father. And now, finding one of them at Bilborough Hall, his very presence defiling the beloved walls, made her shake with anger. Damn them all, she thought. They had descended like a plague of locusts on every Royalist house in England, stealing whatever they could get their hands on, and in most cases abusing the inhabitants and leaving them to starve.

She continued on down the stairs, finding it difficult to conceal the sense of outrage that possessed her on finding this Cromwellian in her home, treating Bilborough Hall as if he owned it. Sensing her presence, he spun round, all taut muscle, lean power and pulsing strength. His gaze was fixed on her as she crossed towards him. A well-defined eyebrow jutted upwards in what could only have been astonishment, and then his eyes narrowed, half-shaded by his lids as he coolly stared at her. There was a barrier of aloofness about him, an hauteur, which was intimidating. He had the healthy glow of one who liked to be in the open, and the air of someone who was not happy to be confined indoors all the time.

In that moment Jane noticed the startling, intense blue of his eyes, and again she thought how extraordinarily attractive he was. His face was hard, but around his eyes there was the tracery of lines from his ready smile. Her heart seemed suddenly to leap into her throat in a ridiculous, choking way and she chided herself for being so foolish. Their paths might have crossed many years ago, but he was, after all, still a stranger to her, and a Roundhead at that. The hounds had got to their feet and taken up what had every appearance of a protective stance on either side of him. No reasonable explanation could be found for their acceptance of this stranger, at least none of which Jane was aware.

‘You are a stranger here, sir,’ she said calmly, having no intention of reminding him that they had already met for at that time, despite having helped him, they had still been enemies and she wondered how he would react to her if she did.

He bowed and answered in a deep, rich voice, ‘Colonel Francis Russell at your service.’ He straightened to his full height and studied her closely, because, apart from recognising her as the young woman he had seen riding her horse earlier, there was also something vaguely familiar about her and he couldn’t think what. He was moderately sure they had never met before, and yet … No, surely he would not forget a face as lovely as this. Her beauty fed his gaze and created in his being a sweet, hungering ache that could neither be easily put aside nor sated with anything less than what he desired. It was the natural desire a man felt for a woman, a desire Francis had not felt in a long time.

Jane knew instinctively that he was just as aware of her as she was of him, and she bent her head so that he should not see her confusion or the anger in her eyes.

‘Kindly explain why it is that you should be holding a pistol in such a way as it could do much harm,’ he said.

She lifted her eyes, not realising until now that she was still holding the weapon. He was studying her closely and she was aware of the tension in herself. ‘I am Jane Lucas, daughter of the late Sir John Lucas.’

‘And the pistol?’ He indicated the gun in her hand.

The amazing eyes were still focused on her as he waited for an answer. She drew a breath. ‘I picked it up when I was upstairs.’

‘And were you going to use it on me?’

She lifted her chin as her eyes caught him running a surreptitious eye over her appearance, the expression on his face condemning as it settled on the naked flesh at her throat. ‘No, I was not, Colonel Russell. I was merely going to place it out of harm’s way.’

‘Harm being?’

‘How would I know that, since I have only just now returned home?’

‘Home?’

‘Bilborough Hall, of course.’

Francis gave her a long, slow look, a twist of humour around his beautifully moulded lips. He had been aware of who she was from the moment he had set eyes on her. He recognised her from some of the Lucas family paintings he had seen on his arrival at Bilborough Hall, painted when she had been a girl. Her dark beauty had startled him. There had been a plumpness to her features, and in her eyes the artist had captured an over-boisterous girl. With the passing of the years she was much changed. At thirty years of age, he had known many beautiful women, selecting those of fire and passion, and yet he’d had no desire to form a long-standing relationship with any one of them. He had not expected to find the girl in the painting to have blossomed into such an exotic creature.

No man could remain unmoved by this young woman’s beauty. With hair as black as ebony and as sleek as silk, high cheek bones and slanting eyes as dark as two shining blackberries, a figure to rival Venus and full, ripe lips that betrayed her sensuality, she was all temptation—a bewitching, exotic creature. Her neck was long and there was a certain grace in her movements that reminded him of a swan. He was conscious of the musical resonance of her voice when she spoke, and when he lowered his eyes he saw tiny beads of perspiration in the V of her dress, open at the throat, and the thrust of her high, firm breasts straining against the fabric.

The smile building about his mouth creased the clear hardness of his jaw and to Jane, it made him appear in that moment the most handsome man in the world. The flame in his gaze kindled brighter, burning her with its intensity. Then, suddenly, his direct, masculine assurance disconcerted her. She was vividly conscious of how close he was to her. She felt an unfamiliar heat flushing her cheeks that she had never experienced before.

Instantly she felt resentful towards him, threatened in some way. The glow in her face now faded. He had made too much of an impact on her, this Roundhead, and she was afraid that if he looked at her much longer he would read what was in her mind with those, clever, brilliant blue eyes of his. She straightened her back, raising her chin in an effort to break the spell he wove about her with his eyes.

Hearing his companions’ horses clattering out of the courtyard, she said, ‘If I have offended you in any way by greeting you with a pistol in my hand, it was not intentional. I ask your pardon. I should hate you to leave Bilborough Hall thinking I am lacking in manners.’

A well-defined eyebrow jutted sharply upwards. ‘Leave? Why should you think I am leaving? I am not going anywhere.’

‘But—your friends. I think they are leaving.’

‘So they are. Without me.’

‘But—forgive me if I appear somewhat foolish, but if they are leaving, why are you not going with them? Excuse me for being blunt, Colonel, but I find the mere thought of entertaining the enemy in this house offensive.’

‘Enemy?’ A soft, amused chuckle issued forth from Francis. ‘I am not your enemy, Mistress Lucas. Far from it. War seems to get the best of everybody, but the war is over and the country is trying to pull itself together.’

‘Not while that odious man Oliver Cromwell is in charge. I must ask you to be plain, sir, and explain to me why I should find a Roundhead in my home treating it as if it were his own. Or do you prefer prevarication to plain speaking?’

‘No,’ Francis said slowly. ‘I always make a point of speaking plainly.’

‘Then why have you not left with your friends? Where will you stay?’

‘Right here. In this house.’

‘Oh, no, I think not,’ Jane said, a boulder settling where her heart had been, disquiet dwelling where just a short while before there had been happiness and joy.

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘Why should I go anywhere when this is my home? The house and estate belong to me now. I purchased it fair and square.’

Jane stared at him in instinctive fear. ‘But—how can it? You lie.’

‘I do not.’

For a long moment she did not move. She was shocked, and as she sank on to the edge of the settle, clutching its arm, an onlooker might have supposed she had died. Surely it could not be true. She had heard of such happenings, of course, of properties belonging to Royalists being sequestered, but for it to happen to her—to have Bilborough taken from her! She was too shocked to weep and this man’s careless indifference to her plight brought her to her feet, and the ill-judged words sprang to her tongue almost without conscious thought.

‘How dare you! How dare you be so callous, so thoughtless at what your purchase of Bilborough would do to me, the owner of this house.’

‘Not any longer,’ he replied bluntly. ‘Forgive me, Mistress Lucas, but I did not know you—not that it would have made any difference.’

To Jane his reply was insultingly flippant and she felt the bite of his mockery. She had been so oppressed living in Jacob Atkins’s house these past four years that her temper had been subdued. But now, for the time being, those fears began to fade, for she had greater problems at hand. Tired of being at the mercy of Jacob Atkins for so long, she had not escaped his tyranny to find herself at the mercy of another, and she would do whatever it took to claim back what was rightfully hers. As she rose and confronted the Roundhead once more, she felt a deep and abiding anger.

Francis saw the young woman’s face turn white and the slender fingers clench on the riding whip they held, and knew a fraction of a second before she raised her hand what she would do and raised his own to avoid the blow, trapping hers easily and twisting it up behind her back, knocking the whip from her grasp and sending it clattering to the floor. His arms were a cage holding her against him.

Jane could feel the heat of him, the hard-muscled strength of him as his eyes looked mercilessly down into hers. Almost immediately his hands released her arm and closed over her shoulders, thrusting her away. Suddenly and unexpectedly he laughed.

‘You appear to be remarkably quick with your hands, Mistress Lucas. I can see I must not underestimate you. You might well have been a match for my fellow soldiers. So much for the popular conception of gently bred young ladies being raised like tender plants given to swooning and the vapours.’

The bright colour flamed in Jane’s cheeks once more and she bent and retrieved her whip, trying to ignore the pain in her wrist. ‘If I am angry, sir, it is because I suddenly find my home, which has belonged to the Lucas family for generations, has been stolen.’ She was also feeling increasingly unwell. Her headache was definitely getting worse and she was so hot and thirsty.

He laughed again in the face of her anger. ‘Of course, I should be delighted to have you remain as my guest—until you have found somewhere else to go. Do you have relatives hereabouts?’

Jane was dumbstruck. And so it was that she looked at the Roundhead Colonel with new eyes. And because it happened so unexpectedly, leaving no time to prepare herself, she experienced a sudden, terrible sense of loss and loneliness so that, for a moment, she found she could not speak. As she went on looking at him in disbelief, almost unseeing, she felt her heart gradually begin to pound, and all the tensions she had been trying so hard to control building up inside her until they came together in a tight knot at the base of her throat. She’d had moments of dejection before, but they had never been so serious. This was a bitter blow.

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