Moonrise

His intense gaze was focused on her, not the horse, and suddenly Sarah felt herself unsure as to the topic of the conversation. Once again the baron was standing too close to her. It muddled her thinking. Wedged between the wall and her horse, she was unable to move away.

“Mistress Sarah won’t never sell Brigand.” Arthur’s eager young voice startled them both. At many estates, Sarah knew, a servant would be beaten for speaking without being addressed first by the master, but her uncle and father had always encouraged fair treatment and respect for all who worked on their properties. Their idea of Christian brotherhood was not mere abstract theology.

Anthony turned his easy smile on the boy. “I believe you, lad. Though it’s been said that I can be very persuasive when I want to be.” His dark eyes shifted back to Sarah.

“If we’re to get some riding in before the midday meal, we’d best get started. If you like, you may try out my uncle’s prize stallion, Chestnut. I think you’ll find him a worthy mount,” she said hurriedly. She wanted the morning to be over with.

Arthur, now fully under Anthony’s spell, rushed to ready Thomas Fairfax’s best horse for the baron’s use. It was a handsome sable stallion, as high as Brigand, but without quite the breadth of flank that gave Sarah’s horse its extraordinary strength.

They left Arthur staring after them in awe, and Sarah had to admit that they must make a striking sight as they made their way along the well-worn road to the village. Brigand and Chestnut were two of the finest horses in the area, and today both had riders worthy of such impressive mounts. They rode several minutes in silence, enjoying the rare December sunshine.

“If I’d known Yorkshire to have such a mild clime, I’d have visited before,” Anthony said finally.

“We’re fortunate today. Perhaps the sun is shining in your honor, my lord.”

Anthony lifted a dark eyebrow. It was the nearest the lady had come to coquetry since that obviously staged moment when they had first met back at the stables. Most of her conversation was disarmingly direct. He found her completely unlike the ladies he was used to back at court. Yet he remembered his impression that she had been lying about something the previous evening. The truth was, Mistress Fairfax had him perplexed and intrigued. It was an uncomfortable feeling for a man who prided himself on his skill in judging women.

It was on the tip of his tongue to answer with one of his courtly comments—to profess that the sun’s rays were no brighter than the dazzling brightness of her countenance, or some such nonsense. But he stopped himself and said simply, “If anyone should be honored, mistress, ’tis you.”

The unadorned compliment brought color to her cheeks. She answered him with a smile, and Anthony felt his heart skip a beat. “Shall we run a bit, mistress?” he asked brusquely.

“Of course. We can head through the meadow, if you like. The terrain is smooth and flat.”

Anthony nodded agreement and followed her as she let her beautiful stallion stretch out into an easy gallop. Her uncle had been right. Even with the constraints of her riding skirts and a sidesaddle, she rode superbly, moving in perfect harmony with the animal. He let his horse fall back a ways just to enjoy the view, then spurred ahead, not willing to let her get too far from him. When he pulled up to her, she urged her horse to more speed, forcing him to catch up once again. All at once it became a contest, one in which Sarah seemed to have total control.

Finally she let him match her speed and stay with her. They raced side by side for several minutes, then Sarah pointed to a low rise in the grass and began to slow her pace. “There’s a stream beyond. We’ll just let them take a bit of water,” she called, laughing and disheveled.

Her hair had pulled loose from its tight coils and fell to her shoulders in honeyed waves. Her gray eyes twinkled, and she looked so fresh and young that Anthony again felt the curious twist inside his chest. “We’ll have to arrange a race sometime,” she said with a little laugh.

“You’d best me, I fear. You ride like the wind, Mistress Sarah.”

“‘Tis the horse. No one can beat him.”

Anthony nodded. “I’m beginning to believe it.”

They had come to the edge of the stream. He jumped from his saddle, intending to help Sarah dismount, but she was on the ground before he could approach her. Anthony shook his head and observed, “The horse is twice your height, mistress, yet you jump from his back as easily as a cat.”

He moved toward her, trailing his horse’s reins behind him. “You’ve the eyes of a cat, too, sometimes,” he said. “Gray. I’ve never seen their color before.”

With his black eyes intensely focused on her again, Sarah felt the same agitation of the previous evening. In the space of a day, this fancy London courtier had made more observations about her person than she had heard in her entire life. Of course, at Charles’s court such talk was probably the fashion. But for a girl raised pure and Puritan in the countryside, it was hard to answer.

Part of the time she thought that her discomfiture served her well. Her uncharacteristic loss for words must make her look a fool in the baron’s eyes, and that was probably for the best. However, part of the time, she admitted to herself, she felt an overwhelming desire to impress the man.

Her father had shared his love of learning and books equally with her and Jack. She was educated far beyond what was considered desirable for a woman, and not just in the Puritan teachings of William Prynne and the like. With her father’s encouragement, she’d read Shakespeare and Donne, even Hobbes. And she’d come to hold her own in conversations with many of her father’s friends, who had been among the most learned of the land. She had a ready tongue and quick wit, and, for the life of her, she could not understand why both seemed to forsake her so utterly when in the presence of Lord Rutledge.

“I’ve been jumping off and on horses all my life,” she answered, for lack of any other response. But Anthony preferred to stay with the topic of her eyes.

“A cat’s eyes. But they turn storm-cloud gray when you’re angry.”

“I don’t believe you’ve seen me angry, my lord.”

“Not angry, then, but...incensed. As when you stood up for your uncle last night. I sensed that there was more behind your words. ‘Years of battle and betrayal,’ I believe you said. And there was anger, deep down.” He moved even closer and lifted a finger to point at her face. “And storm clouds there...in those lovely gray eyes.”

“The Civil War was hard on everyone,” Sarah answered carefully. “It’s not something I like to think about.”

“But when a king’s man arrives at your home, you have no other choice, is that it?”

She shook her head slowly. He was very near again, but this time she had no urge to step back. In fact, she felt almost compelled to draw even nearer. “Perhaps I was ready to dislike you, Lord Rutledge, for being a king’s man. But I find that you are not as I would have expected.”

Anthony’s hand had lowered to settle along her arm. Gently he pulled her an imperceptible space toward him. “And how do you find me, mistress?”

Sarah’s heart hammered in her throat and ears, making it hard for her to speak. “Not...disagreeable,” she rasped.

A glint lit the darkness of Anthony’s eyes. “Agreeable, then?”

She nodded.

“I find you very agreeable, Mistress Sarah,” he said in a voice that had grown husky. He bent toward her, his other hand at her elbow, closing the distance between them. Sarah swayed, her knees suddenly weak.

“Mistress Fairfax!” a shrill female voice called from the road.

Sarah stiffened and Anthony’s hands tightened on her arms. They turned in unison toward the sound of the cry. An attractive young woman was approaching them on a lumbering horse with no saddle. She was barefoot and her cotton skirts were hiked up around her thighs.

“It’s one of the village women,” Sarah said, a lump of disquiet lodging painfully in her throat. She had recognized at once the shapely form of Jack’s new friend, Norah Thatcher.

“What does she want with you?” Anthony asked, irritated by the interruption.

Sarah shook her head. Norah slipped from the broad back of the horse and ran toward them, breathing heavily. She stopped in some awe when she got close enough to take a good look at the baron, but recovered quickly and turned to Sarah. “Your...er...Master Partridge sent me to fetch ye, mistress.”

Sarah felt a stab of fear in her middle. “What’s wrong, Norah?” she asked, her voice rising with apprehension.

“Ye’s to come to the village right quickly, mistress.” She stopped and took a deep gulp of a breath. “It seems that the sheriff has arrested Parson Hollander.”

Chapter Three

Sarah rode stiffly alongside Anthony. Their huge mounts had long since left behind the poor farm horse with Norah Thatcher clinging to its back.

“Is it far to the village?” Anthony shouted.

Sarah shook her head. All at once things seemed to be spinning out of control. Gentle Parson Hollander had been arrested. Anthony had insisted on accompanying her to the village, and she didn’t know what they would find when they got there. She hoped that Jack would have enough sense to stay out of sight, and that he had had time to enlist the parson’s help in making sure the villagers knew about the “Henry Partridge” deception. She was confident that they would cooperate with the ruse. There was little love for the king in the town with the taxes being increased regularly to finance the Dutch war. And Jack and Sarah had been treated kindly since arriving at their uncle’s after their father’s execution four years ago. Most of the residents of Wiggleston knew how protective Sarah had been of Jack over the years. She could count on their help, as long as Jack and the parson had had time to spread the word.

“Mistress Sarah, are you close to this village parson? You look distressed.” Anthony was watching her with a thoughtful look on his face that did not help Sarah’s unease.

“He’s been the family parson as long as I can remember.”

“He’s a Puritan, then?”

Sarah hesitated. King Charles had proven remarkably tolerant in allowing Puritans to freely practice the religion that had figured so prominently in the overthrow of his father. But Sarah could not let go of her mistrust. Her father had been killed for his beliefs, and she did not feel comfortable discussing such matters with a representative of the crown. “Parson Hollander is the most godly man I know,” she replied at last. “It’s absolutely ridiculous to think of him being put under arrest.”