Beloved Enemy

by Jane Feather

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Romance; Military Romance

Synopsis

From New York Times bestselling author Jane Feather, a moving, unforgettable romance of defiance and desire. . . England's disastrous Civil War has robbed Lady Virginia Courtney of everything she holds dear--everything but her home, perched on the cliffs of the Isle of Wight. Left alone to defend it, she is powerless when the enemy forces arrive--but even more defenseless when she meets their leader, a fiercely commanding man whose eyes seem to see through to her very soul. Colonel Alexander Marshall is no less affected by his prisoner of war, the bewitching, capable woman who has seen so much loss in her young life. Though he would be justified to send her to the mainland--and to her certain death as a traitor--his hand is stayed by compassion. . .and undeniable desire. But even the most passionate love affair may not be enough to hold two sworn enemies together in the midst of war. . .

Release date: August 26, 2014

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 493

Sample

They came at sunset. There were perhaps two hundred of them, the evening sun setting alight the round helmets and breastplates, turning the tips of steel pikes and halberds into glowing candles. Perhaps a third were on horseback, the remainder on foot—a silent, orderly brigade tramping across the overgrown lawns, neglected driveway, and paths that led to the house.

She stood waiting in the open front door on this warm summer evening of 1648. The house at her back was a Jacobean mansion of soft, sea-weathered stone, the classical cornices and pilasters bespeaking an age before civil war, when an English gentleman could afford to indulge his taste for the gentle arts of architecture and landscaping, and build for posterity the manor house that declared his wealth and endeavor.

The brigade drew closer, and it became clear that one man rode slightly ahead of the front ranks. Her practiced eye approved both his horse—a magnificent black charger standing maybe twenty hands—and the easy seat of the rider. The latter carried neither pike nor musket, but one gloved hand rested on the hilt of the sword at his hip, the other held the reins as loosely as if he were astride a placid mare.

The cavalcade came to a halt at the base of the shallow flight of steps leading to the front door. She remained at her post, waiting in silence. For a long moment the quiet was broken only by the whinny of a horse, the clink of a bridle as its wearer tossed a head and pawed the gravel. The ranks of men in their leathern britches, helmets, and breastplates stood at attention as the sun dipped behind the headland and vanished into Alum Bay.

As if the loss of the sun were a signal of some kind, the leading horseman declaimed: “I am come by the authority of Parliament to sequester all lands and property pertaining to one John Redfern of this Isle of Wight, whose Malignancy to the rule of Parliament has been proven.”

The figure on the steps merely inclined her head. What else was she to do? It was not as if she had an army at her back, muskets trained on the silent ranks come to wrest from her her birthright. She had a ready sense of the absurd that in happier days had landed her hip deep in childhood trouble, and now it again came most inconveniently to the fore—two-hundred armed men facing one unarmed, unprotected woman! Her lips twitched.

The man had witnessed many emotions during these years of civil war. He had seen bravado, resignation, true courage, abject terror, but never could he remember seeing laughter on the face of a Royalist when the New Model Army enforced the decrees of Parliament.

He swung from his horse and mounted the steps, drawing off his gauntlets. “Your name, mistress?”

“Is this an introduction, sir? Or simply an inquisition?”

Her eyes were gray—as cold as the Atlantic Ocean crashing against the Needle Rocks that stood guard over this stretch of water between the Isle of Wight and the English mainland. She was young—barely twenty, he decided. Tall for a woman, but her frame slender and pliant as a willow in the deep-blue kirtle of homespun linen, a white apron tied in a businesslike fashion that merely served to accentuate a waist that he could span with both hands. Her skin carried the golden bloom of summer days spent in the open air. He glanced down at her quiet hands. A slim gold band encircled her ring finger, and the hands were as brown as the small face, but there was a work-roughened quality to their skin that indicated hardship.

Alex Marshall, the youngest son of the earl of Grantham, suddenly remembered his upbringing. “I am Colonel Alexander Marshall, mistress.”

“That is an uncomfortably royal name for a Roundhead to carry, Colonel,” she said, without immediately responding to the introduction.

Alex Marshall had few scruples when it came to pitched battle, little compunction when he fulfilled Parliament’s orders and arrested the king’s adherents, sequestered their estates, and disinherited their occupants. Until this moment, however, he had never felt the slightest inclination to vent frustration on a woman.

Those gray eyes mocked him as she curtsied and said, “Virginia Courtney, Colonel. I have little hospitality to offer you and . . .” She gestured at the throng. “. . . your cohorts. But what I have, I gladly extend.”

Alex was conscious of two-hundred pairs of eyes at his back as he stood alone facing this extraordinary woman who made fun of him with every supple movement and every glint in her eyes. A woman who offered him hospitality as a gracious hostess extending succor to the wanderer.

“Who is here with you?” It was a harsh demand, an attempt to establish a supremacy that was usually unquestioned.

“Why, no one, Colonel. I am quite alone,” she responded. “You need have no fear for your men’s safety. They are not about to be attacked.” The voice was dulcet, sweet in its insolent challenge.

Ginny watched him covertly. She must take care not to antagonize the conqueror too much lest she endanger others than herself. It was a fine line she must tread if she were to achieve her object. He was in his late twenties, she decided, and as personable as it was possible for anyone to be in that detestable uniform. His eyes were a mélange of greeny-brown—not true hazel, but moving in that direction; his eyebrows dark brown and most definitive. An aquiline nose stood above full lips that at this moment were set in a thin line. There was an uncompromising set to the jaw, Ginny reflected, as she wondered what color his hair would be if he ever took off that helmet. One thing she knew, it would be cropped short in the manner of all Roundheads.

“What relationship do you hold to John Redfern?”

“His daughter, sir.”

“And where is your mother?”

“Dead, these six months.” It was a flat statement. “My father, as I am sure you are aware, died three years ago at the Battle of Naseby.”

“And your husband?” His eyes fixed on the wedding ring.

“Killed during the surrender of Oxford.” It was another simple, expressionless statement.

“And where is your household, Mistress Courtney?” She was forcing this catechism from him, putting him in the position of a boorish brute dragging the catalogue of war deaths from a lone widow. The thin line of his lips tightened.

“Gone.” She shrugged with an assumption of ease. “There is little purpose, Colonel, in maintaining an estate destined for the block. I have lived alone these past six months. If you doubt my word, you have only to look around.” Ginny gestured to the overgrown lawns, the box hedges around the flower garden springing out of their former ornamental shapes to throw unruly sprigs into the weed-infested broad walks, destroying the neatness of the rectangles and squares that had marked her mother’s beloved garden.

“There is absolutely no one living with you?” He stared, incredulous.

“Have I not just said so, Colonel?” A martial light appeared in the previously cold gray depths of her eyes. She was enjoying herself, Alex Marshall realized, as she stood challenging him in the face of an armed brigade.

The colonel, however, was most definitely not enjoying himself. It had been ten years since anyone had questioned his authority, either implicitly or explicitly, and it was not an experience he wished to continue—particularly when the questioner was a mere slip of a girl.

“How old are you?” he snapped.

“I do not consider that to be your affair, Colonel.” Had she overplayed her hand? It was a lamentable tendency she had when her blood rose in anger or when the game took precedence over the goal. Tread softly now!

She had little chance, however, to follow her own advice. The colonel spun her around and propelled her into the house away from watching eyes. The hall was large and cool, the walls elaborately paneled, the plasterwork of the ceiling ornate. A broad staircase with an intricately carved baluster led to the upper floors. But the colonel, at this point, was not interested in admiring his surroundings. “I asked you a question, Mistress Courtney, and I will have my answer.”

“And if I choose not to give it to you?”

“Then you will discover, girl, that I am an uncomfortable man to challenge.” He spoke very softly.

It was that soft voice that convinced Ginny, more than the hand still gripping her elbow and the exasperation in the greeny-brown eyes. Deciding that she had played with fire for as long as it was safe to do so, Ginny shrugged nonchalantly and said, “nineteen, Colonel.”

“And why have you been permitted to remain here unattended?”

“In the absence of my parents and my husband, sir, there is no authority that I am prepared to acknowledge,” Ginny replied coolly.

“And what of your husband’s family? There must be someone who stands guardian to you. You are not yet of age.”

“I did not say I had no guardian.” She spoke slowly as if to a half-witted child. “I said only that there is no authority I am prepared to accept.”

Taking her chin between long fingers, he tilted her face and examined it thoughtfully. It was an arresting countenance, dominated by those fine eyes, but much more youthful than he had originally perceived. “My child, I am afraid that your parents and your husband must have sadly neglected their duties. You appear remarkably undisciplined.”

Virginia, her composure shattered as he paid her back in her own coin, attempted to pull herself free from his hold, but the fingers tightened on her chin. He held her thus for a minute longer and then, with a satisfied chuckle, released her. “It is not pleasant, is it, Mistress Courtney, to be goaded? Come, I wish to inspect the house.”

“You wish to see it first, before giving your men the freedom to pillage?” Venom coated every word as she took her revenge. The gasp of outrage this time came from the colonel. He took a step toward her, but she stood her ground, for he was not to know that her knees shook beneath her skirt.

“My men do not pillage,” he hissed.

“Then they are the exceptions to the rule,” bravely she said. “Vandal and Roundhead are held to be synonymous these days.”

It was, of course, true and a fact that Colonel Marshall deeply regretted. Many beautiful houses and priceless paintings had, in the last year, fallen victim to the besieging cannon, the soldier’s pike, and the burning torch. But his own men were too well disciplined, too much in awe of their colonel, who punished the slightest excess with a fearful consistency.

“You may rest assured, Mistress Courtney, that the house and its contents will suffer as little harm as is consonant with occupation,” he said stiffly. “I intend to make this place my headquarters during my sojourn on the island and would be glad if you would show me what accommodations the house has to offer.”

Virginia curtsied and inclined her head. “I am at your service, Colonel. There are but twelve bedrooms, counting mine own. Of course, there are the servants’ quarters, but I hardly think you may house all your men there.”

Alex heard the note of mockery again and fought to keep a tight rein on his temper. His moment of supremacy had not lasted long. “My men will bivouac in the gardens and the orchard.”

“I do hope that they will show respect for the shrubs and the fruit trees,” she murmured sweetly, turning toward the drawing room.

Alex Marshall regarded the slender straight back, the firm set of her shoulders, the arrogant tilt of her head where glossy chestnut braids formed a neat crown. Mingling with his infuriation came reluctant admiration and the most intense curiosity. What kind of woman was this, who faced adversity with a grim humor and a conquering army with a defiance laced with irony? He had the liveliest desire to find out.

Blissfully unaware that such a desire played perfectly into the hands of Virginia Courtney, he strode to the open front door and in ringing accents gave orders for the dispersal of the troops before he accompanied her on the tour of this gracious house.

Leather carpets covered the floors of the dining and drawing rooms; the stools held gold nails, and green velvet covered the few chairs reserved for the elderly and honored guests. It was a house that bespoke both the wealth and taste of a seventeenth-century English gentleman. The usual trestle table had given place to solid black oak with ornamental legs; beds and cupboards were of the same magnificently carved wood. Framed pictures hung on the oak-paneled walls, and the colonel recognized several Rubens and Van Dycks. In the deep embrasures of the windows, marble sculptures stood carefully placed to catch the eye. But the miasma of neglect hung in the still evening air, exemplified in the tarnished bronze and gold furnishings, the dust nestling in the knots of the intricate carvings, running in white lines down the folds of the velvet draperies.

“It is a little difficult for one person to maintain such a house in true order,” Ginny said in inadvertent defense, dusting a small table with her apron.

“Quite so, mistress,” he concurred, averting his gaze from the slight flush of discomfiture mantling the sun-browned cheeks and the sheen that obscured the clarity of her gaze.

Alex had hidden the tragedy and pathos of this war behind his vision of a land no longer ruled by the despotism of the Stuart monarchy—a land where Parliament, elected by the people, held the only definitive voice of the lawmaker. But on this summer afternoon, on this small island outpost of the greater island that was England, in the dust of a neglected manor house and the militant sparkle of a pair of gray eyes, the greater purpose became diminished, split into the atoms of its suffering human parts. This girl had lost her father in the great Battle of Naseby, three years ago, when Cromwell’s New Model Army had won a decisive victory against Charles I and the royal army under the command of his nephew, Prince Rupert. The following year, she had lost her husband when the king’s headquarters at Oxford had surrendered and King Charles had given himself into the hands of the Scots, no more friends of Parliament than he was. In the wake of their victory, the parliamentary armies had besieged the estates of the Cavaliers who still held out for the king; Parliament had imposed crippling fines on the Malignants—fines that had forced them to sell off vast acres of field and woodland. In extreme cases, the lands had been sequestered and the owners disinherited. This island backwater, however, had escaped for two years until the king had chosen to illuminate it with his presence. Having been handed over to Parliament by the Scots, who hoped thus to make peace, he had been seized by the army and imprisoned in Hampton Court. Charles I had listened to explosive rumblings within the army as the Radicals overcame the Moderates, and his very life had become threatened as talk of bringing him to summary justice grew stronger. In November 1647, he had escaped Hampton Court and taken sanctuary in Carisbrooke Castle on the Isle of Wight, ostensibly the guest of the governor, Colonel Hammond, who found his Royalist sympathies clashing mercilessly with an office he held by the authority of Parliament.

Alex Marshall’s brigade was part of the reinforcements sent to the Isle of Wight—their task to deal harshly with the many local Royalists rallying around the king, as Royalist uprisings swept through England and Wales, bringing this, the second civil war in six years, to a land already riven and denuded by strife.

When he had come to the Redfern estate this evening, to exact Parliament’s penalty, he had not expected to find only John Redfern’s orphaned, widowed daughter standing between the enemy at the gate and her inheritance. It seemed to make nonsense of the presence of an entire brigade, and this young, unprotected woman was making him feel like a posturing idiot.

“You will grant me sufficient time to remove my possessions from here? Or are they also sequestered, Colonel?” Ginny’s heart pounded as she broached the all-important matter. Had she read him rightly in those first moments? Read correctly the paradox inherent in the ingrained authority of the commander, who could not tolerate a challenge, and the chivalry of the noble born, who would not cast out a defenseless woman. If she was right, both those facets of his personality would dictate that he keep her under his eye, at least for a short while.

She opened a heavy door onto a west-facing corner room. It was a girl-child’s room with its dimity hangings to the bed and the windows. A spinning wheel stood in one corner, the hemp of flax partly spun and carded. A wooden doll, prettily dressed, sat on the window seat. A set of tortoiseshell combs lay on the dresser, and the armoire stood open to reveal her scant wardrobe.

For the moment ignoring the sarcastic question, Alex went to the casement standing open to the sea. The house stood on the cliff above Alum Bay at the westerly end of the Isle of Wight. The small cove was famous for its variegated sands—every color of the rainbow—and for its commanding position at the point where the ocean gave way to the relatively peaceful waters of the Solent. In the evening light the Needle Rocks presented a mellow nonthreatening image to those who did not know these waters. The English mainland was still just visible across the five-mile stretch of water, and the coast of France, should King Charles finally decide to make his escape complete, a day’s sail across the channel.

“There is no need for you to remove your possessions, mistress, since you will continue to occupy this chamber.” The colonel turned from the casement, his decision made.

Ginny frowned even as her heart leaped. She had read him right, but she could not allow her relief to show. Her mouth took a recalcitrant turn. “You will pardon my stupidity, sir, but I do not appear to understand you.”

Alex Marshall sighed. Unless he was very much mistaken, Virginia Courtney was going to prove a most troublesome acquisition. “Then let me make myself plain, once and for all. Since you have no visible guardian and are a widowed minor, you are now a ward of Parliament.”

“A prisoner?” Her eyebrows lifted. “No, Colonel. You have not the right to take noncombatants prisoner, and I have not resisted you in any fashion, so can hardly be designated a combatant.”

“Very well,” he said. “If that is the attitude you wish to adopt, then I am quite willing to play my own hand.” Crossing the chamber, he again tilted her chin, ignoring her indignant gasp. “Mistress Courtney, with the authority invested in me by Parliament, I herewith place you under house arrest. You are the only surviving heir of the Malignant John Redfern, whose estates have been sequestered, and I deem it impolitic to allow your freedom. Your movements are restricted to the house and the immediate boundaries of the estate until such time as Parliament decrees otherwise.”

Until such time as Alex Marshall decrees otherwise, Ginny amended grimly. It was exactly what she wanted, of course, but for some reason that did little to reduce her annoyance, did nothing to reduce another strange feeling that she could not identify. A feeling that seemed to have something to do with the armored body standing almost knee to knee with her, the warm strength of his fingers holding her chin, and the curious glow in the greeny-brown eyes. Her eyelashes fluttered in an attempt to conceal any revealing sparks from the intent scrutiny bent upon her upturned face. “It appears, Colonel, that I have no choice but to accept my position. It is to be hoped that your soldiers will also accept that position.”

“You need have no fear, mistress.” Alex, once again at a disadvantage, spoke brutally. “So long as you behave with circumspection, my men are not going to rape a woman under my protection.”

“Then I must be grateful for that protection,” she responded gently.

“Do not tempt me, Virginia!” Releasing her chin abruptly, he stepped away from her as his anger flared.

“I do not recall according you the right to use my name.”

“You are not in a position to accord me any rights whatsoever. I suggest you accept that fact with all due speed before my far-from-inexhaustible patience runs out!”

It appeared to be a suitable moment to yield gracefully. The colonel was quite convinced of her reluctance to remain in the house under his protection. She had only to offer the semblance of defiance now and again to ensure that he remained so convinced. “And how is my imprisonment to be conducted, colonel? Am I considered sufficiently dangerous to be kept under guard?” It was her last challenge for the time being.

A telltale muscle twitched in the colonel’s cheek. “You will restrict your movements according to my decree. Should you break parole, you will be confined within doors. It is understood?”

“Perfectly, Colonel.” Ginny sketched a curtsy There would be no need to break her parole to complete her work. Her main fear had been that she would have been turned off the estate by the occupying forces. But the closer confined she was to home, the easier it would be. Until Edmund’s wound was sufficiently healed for him to make his escape. Then would she make hers, also.

“Am I to be permitted to go about my business now?” she asked demurely. “Dusk is falling, and I should shut up the chickens before the fox begins to prowl. The horses also require my attention, the cow needs milking, and I must water the vegetable garden.”

“How much livestock do you have?” He frowned, forgetting his exasperation with her for the moment. The tasks she had just described were those better suited to a domestic servant than to the daughter of a lord. She would most certainly have been educated to sew and spin, to distill medicines from herbs for the use of the household, and to make the fruit syrups and wines from currant, cowslip, and elderberries. In addition she would have been taught fine cooking and the methods of curing meat for the long winter months, and of preserving herbs and fruit. But the heavy outdoor farm work was not considered a suitable occupation for a lady of the great house.

“I have kept just enough for my own purposes.” She shrugged, well aware of the thoughts that had prompted his question. “Two horses, a dozen chickens, one cow, oh ... and a pig, which I had intended to have slaughtered to supply me with meat during the winter months. A local farmer, in exchange for the use of a pasture, supplies me with grain for bread and feed for the cattle. I have been able to maintain the vegetable garden, and the orchard has borne well this year. I am in no danger of starving, Colonel, so long as my husbandry is efficient.”

What an extraordinary woman she was! “You are most resourceful, Virginia. But I will have one of my men undertake those tasks for you. In exchange, you might perhaps prepare a meal for myself and my officers. We are heartily sick of campfire cooking and have plentiful supplies.” He found himself offering her a smile, inviting her sympathy, then realized that it was hardly appropriate in the circumstances.

His plan did not suit Virginia at all. She needed the freedom of the garden and the stableyard, the cover of the routine business that would take her there. In her turn, she gave him a hopefully winning smile. “I will be happy to cook for you, Colonel, since I consider you to be my guests. But I would prefer to perform my own tasks in mine own fashion. I do not see what reasonable objection you might make to that.”

Alex could think of none, either—except that it was not the work of a lady. But Virginia Courtney was no ordinary member of that breed, and he had, perhaps, achieved sufficient victory for this day. Anyway, that smile was quite irresistible. It started in her eyes, which crinkled at the corners in the most appealing fashion, before the full lips curved to reveal unusually fine white teeth. Her face lost all its cold-eyed irony and became that of a vibrant young woman well aware of her charms and possessed of a delicious sense of humor. Alex Marshall suddenly wished he had met her at some other time and place.

“As you wish.” His voice was brusque, hiding these uncomfortable reflections. “You will be pleased to remember, however, that you now fall under my command, and as you will learn from my soldiers, I do not tolerate disobedience.” Swinging on his heel, he left her bedchamber.

Ginny nodded to herself. There was little reason to doubt his statement. Her only course lay in placation and the appearance of total obedience. For as long as she was allowed to move freely around the estate, accustoming the men to her presence and the routine nature of her movements, she could continue to provide for Edmund and Peter, keeping the secret on which hung all their lives.

With swift decision, she strode from the room, along the gallery that ran three sides of the second floor overlooking the entrance hall below. She paused for a moment, hiding behind a carved pillar to look down on a lively scene. The men marching through her house for all the world as if it were their own were clearly officers, to judge by their insignia and the spurs on their booted feet that rang out on the stone-flagged floor. They appeared to be taking inventory and were doing so in a seemingly orderly fashion, their voices as educated and well modulated as their colonel’s.

Of course, this civil war was not a war between classes, Ginny reflected. It was a war of political and religious convictions, and there were as many of the well-born fighting for Parliament as there were fighting for King Charles. Many of the noblest houses had been split asunder, brother against brother, father against son. Was Alex Marshall a case in point?

Ginny slipped down the backstairs that gave direct access to the kitchens. There were men here, too, but common soldiers carting supplies—sides of beef and pork that they hung in the cold, flagged pantries, sacks of flour and meal, leathern flagons of wine. Oliver Cromwell’s New Model Army clearly looked after itself. Outside, the stableyard was a hive of activity as the cavalry saw to the needs of their mounts. The Redfern estate was typical of its kind and geared to the breeding and purchasing of horses. They were the only form of transport and were now beginning to replace oxen for the heavy farm work. No self-sufficient estate could afford to ignore their needs. As a result, there was ample accommodation in the now-empty barns and stables for the twenty horses of the elite cavalry.

Virginia had kept two horses: her own mare that had been her father’s wedding gift, and a cart horse to pull the dray when she went to collect her payment of grain and hay. They both appeared restless at this abrupt intrusion into the quiet lives they had led for the last six months. No move, however, had been made to dispossess them of their stalls, and she fed, watered, and soothed them.

The horses were considerably more amenable than Betsy. Ginny disliked the cow intensely. She was an obstinate creature, that would kick over the pail any chance she had. But Ginny had chosen to keep her over her more docile sisters because she gave the richest milk with a heavy golden crown of cream that made excellent butter and cheese.

The cow left her pasture willingly enough and moved docilely to the barn. She needed relief, after all, and was prepared to be good until it was afforded her. Only when her swollen udders were empty did she decide to kick up her heels. Ginny sat on the three-legged stool, resting her head against the warm, heaving flank as her fingers, skillful now after months of practice, kneaded and pulled. It was hard work, but her hands had grown strong, and the milk gushed forth to fill the pail. Afterward, she would skim the cream and mix it with raw eggs—a powerful concoction for the wounded man, one that would bring the strength back to Edmund’s thin body and do much to repair the loss of blood. Make him again as strong and hardy as his foes—a worthy opponent for men like Alex Marshall.

The thought rose as unbidden as the image of the broad soldier’s body that had stood so close to her own. Those greeny-brown eyes hovered in her internal vision. There had been one most disconcerting moment when those eyes had softened and glowed, freed of the angry flash of his response to her deliberate sparring. Supposing she had met him five years ago, before Giles Courtney had been a suitor for her hand . . . before there had been any need for sparring? But five years ago, Alex Marshall would already have declared himself for Parliament, and no Royalist maid would have captured his eye, any more than she could do so now.

“Careful now! She’ll have that over.” It was as if her errant thoughts had worked a magic to conjure up the reality of the image. It was the colonel’s voice, the colonel’s arm pushing past her to whisk away the wooden pail from beneath the cow’s belly. Ginny, deep in her reverie, had missed the warning shuffle of Betsy’s feet.

She looked up at him with a laughing apology, hoping that her scarlet cheeks would be explained by embarrassment at her carelessness. He had shed the breastplate, helmet, and sword, wore the simple garb of the off-duty soldier, and his eyes were alight with laughter.

“Daydreaming, Mistress Courtney?”

“I fear so, Colonel. It is not wise with one of Betsy’s ilk.”

“No,” he agreed, considering the baleful cow. “There’s