AT FIRST SIGHT: A Novella(18)
Adam looked pained. “Awww, you bruise my heart.”
“But not your august ego.” She parried. “It is beyond bruising.”
His gaze ran over her bodice appreciatively and returned to duel with hers. “Come, come, let bygones be bygones, Eve.”
The implied familiarity in his tone caused Risingh to lift a brow.
Holding his tankard out to the side, Adam executed a short bow. “Governor Risingh, Lord Lieutenant Adam Sutcliff of Our Lord Protector’s Sovereign at your service.”
“The Sovereign – the warship spotted off our bay? It would seem I am besieged by the English tonight.”
“Oh, not besieged, Governor. In fact, General-at-Sea William Craven will doubtless be calling upon you soon – very soon – to pay his respects.”
Her stomach plummeted to her toes.
Adam’s penetrating glance flicked to her. With a certainty, she realized then he knew her identity. Had known it all along. And had betrayed her to William. Why should she expect Adam to have cared about their encounter, after all? To him, after so many female conquests, those hours of intimacy must have seemed inconsequential but sufficiently self-gratifying.
Walls were closing in on her, and she could not breathe. Her vision went cloudy. She picked up her skirts and made to move past the knot of people barring the tall, double doors’ entrance. “I shall leave you two to your diplomatic discussions.”
Despite the buzzing in her ears, she recognized the authoritative voice she next heard and went into instantaneous and uncontrollable shudders.
“I see you found her, Sutcliff,” said William Craven
Then to her, “Your leave-taking will not be necessary, my dear. You are part of the reason – the main reason – I call upon His Excellency.” Backing him up, his retinue of six Ironsides musketeers stood at attention.
Where now to turn? For so long of time she had been running from persecution. But now she was running out of courage. Running out of perseverance. Running out of stamina. Running out of hope.
William made a leg, and said, “Baron Craven of Harrington presents our Lord Protector’s respects, my lord.”
“You are well received, Baron – and I presume from your previous statement you are acquainted with our Mistress Wainwright?”
“Well, actually, she is our Lady Evangeline Bradshaw.” William spared her an inquisitive glance. Expecting what from her? “And she is wanted for treason, for murder, for – ”
Her spine stiffened. “Have you any proof of such slanderous charges, my lord?” It was a slippery slope she was sliding.
“The warrants are aboard ship in my keeping.” His harsh features were taut with both anger and agony. “But if you willingly accompany me back to England, I can guarantee you safe passage and a fair trial.”
Rage contracted her facial muscles. “As my father and brother received?”
Behind them, once again the revelers halted their boisterous festivity; for what could be more entertaining than the spectacle at hand? Even the musicians ceased playing. Speculative murmurs and mutterings flitted around the Banquet Hall.
Risingh smiled. “This is a matter that can be adjudicated forthwith.” He turned his solemnly thoughtful gaze on her. “Do you challenge the baron’s charges?”
The words struggled forth. “I do. Aye, that I do, my lord.”
“And what part of his charges do you deny?”
“Everything. Nothing I have done has been treasonous toward the Commonwealth.”
“She and her family aligned themselves with the late King Charles,” William said, “who the Commonwealth found guilty of treason.”
Her fists knotted. How could she ever have entertained affectionate feelings toward William? “We aligned ourselves with the Hippocratic Oath – to help the sick and abstain from intentional wrongdoing.”
His ferocious gaze turned on her. “Not only did you side with King Charles, but your family did nothing, while the Lord Protectorate’s son lay dying.”
“That is a lie! My brother did all he could, but it was not – ”
Risingh held up a beringed hand. Impatience was clearly etched in the compressed line of his mouth. “Rationalizations are irrelevant. If Baron Craven can supply a substantiated warrant of your arrest, well – your being a citizen of England – I can do nothing but comply in accordance with the pact Sweden has with England.”
It was as if she had drunk too much wine. She could not comprehend what was afoot. The room was swirling.
Surprising all, John Croxton stepped forward, woolen cap in hand. “With all due respect, my lords, if the Lady is married to a Swiss citizen, then she cannot forcibly be handed over to the English, is that right?”
Risingh said, “I believe the man may have a point, Baron.”
William’s expression was thunderous. “But she is not married to a Swedish citizen.”
“Sire, Peter Erichsson, here,” Croxton gestured behind him with his thumb at the corpulent young man, rubbing his hands anxiously, “would wed the lady in the church, here on the island – before whatever arrest papers could be fetched from the ship. The Reverend Campanius is here for St. Knut’s and could officiate.”
Delighted by this latest turn of events, Gertrude shoved forward with one gloved hand a shambling Peter. He doffed his cap to reveal his flaxen, higgledy-piggledy hair.