Helen Dickson - A Traitor's Touch

Simon idly watched the serving wenches go about their business, his eyes lighting on a particularly buxom redhead giving him the eye. His mind turned over possibilities and began sketching scenarios in which he would take her somewhere private where their coming together would end in some climatic terminal.

Thoughts of climaxes brought vivid, full-colour visions of Theresa to mind, the last woman he had made love to in the twilight of her father’s French garden—her heavy breasts perfectly round, her face beneath his washed by his kisses, eyes closing tight in pleasure, then opening again to look with delight into his, her mouth stretched wide in a permanent gasp of pleasure. The daughter of a French nobleman, she had meant nothing to him and had receded into the past like so many before her. Still, she had been a beauty all right and he would probably never see her again.

He did not normally permit himself the indulgence of sentiment. There was in his nature a very cold streak and he cultivated it because it protected him. And now, with a rising and rebellion imminent, it was imperative that he did not relax his vigilance. But he was restless, cursing the imagination which sent him thoughts the like of which he had not suffered since he had left Theresa. But he often thought the imaginings were so much better than the disappointing real thing.

His relationships with the fair sex often left him puzzled—where was the blinding ecstasy that came with the mystical fusion of two bodies into one? He was a good lover, he had been told. He found sex interesting, as well as physically pleasant. He rarely had to seduce a woman—for some women he was a highly desirable man—and the thrill of conquest was not what he wanted. He was also an expert at giving and receiving sexual gratification. But over time he had formed the view that ecstasy came not from a man’s pleasure in a woman, but from their pleasure in each other, which was something that seemed to elude him.

Shifting his gaze from the serving wench, he studied his young companion more closely. With short hair and small heart-shaped face accentuating the large green eyes and slim, fragile features and high delicate cheekbones, the youth looked much younger than he had originally thought.

‘We shall have refreshments and discuss what I see lurking in the depths of those eyes of yours.’

Simon waited for Henry to make the opening gambit. But it seemed his expectations would come to naught for Henry volunteered nothing of himself. ‘Since we are to eat together, we might as well get better acquainted,’ he said in an attempt to draw the lad out of himself. ‘My name’s Simon Tremain. I already know you are called Henry. Your family name eludes me?’

Henrietta met his gaze and immediately the shutters came down over her eyes and her expression became guarded. She had the uneasy thought that her companion was like a tall, predatory hawk and that she was a small, disadvantaged animal about to be pounced on. ‘That’s because I didn’t tell you,’ she retorted, not wishing to become too familiar with an active Jacobite whose sympathies were akin to those of her father.

He, too, had been a Jacobite agent, and his scheming and conspiracies against King George had led him to the gallows, leaving his wife and Henrietta to carry the burden of that crime of treason. Nothing would ever lessen the deep bitterness she felt towards the Jacobites. It was a bitterness that burned inside her with an all-consuming intensity. Henrietta didn’t like talking about herself, especially not with strangers. Andrew Brody was a name remembered and still talked about by many.

Simon’s curiosity increased. He arched a brow and peered at his companion, shrugging casually. ‘Just curious.’

‘You ask too many questions.’

‘It’s a habit of mine. You do have one, don’t you?’

When Henry made no further comment Simon did not pursue it. But with this in mind he looked again at the lad and felt drawn to him. He sat erect, his small chin in his heart-shaped face raised, and Simon could see him putting up a valiant fight for control—a fight he won. Despite his ragged garb he looked incongruously like a proud young prince, his eyes sparkling like twin jewels. Simon’s granite features softened and his eyes warmed, as if he understood how humiliated the lad felt on being brought low by a situation that had obviously driven him from his home.

‘I ask your pardon, Henry. It was not my intention to intrude on your privacy. Being a private person myself, I respect it in others, so you can relax. You were serious when you said you were going to Scotland? To your uncle, I believe you said.’

Henrietta nodded.

‘Where in Scotland does he live?’

‘Some miles from Inverness. It’s—quite inhospitable, I believe.’

‘I believe it is.’

They fell silent when the landlady arrived at their table, skilfully balancing a huge tray on one hand. She placed the steaming plates of eggs and ham and wedges of warm bread and butter and freshly made succulent fruit tarts before them, telling them to enjoy their meal. Unable to override the demands of hunger before the landlady had retreated from their table, Henrietta began munching on the bread, savouring the delicious taste. Simon watched her in amusement until the object of his scrutiny became aware of his attention. Suddenly abashed, she slowed down. Simon laughed, then turned his interest to his own breakfast.

Henrietta hadn’t eaten since dinner time the previous day and ate heartily at first, but once her hunger was satisfied, she ate slowly while her companion consumed his portions more leisurely, savouring each taste fully. She felt much better after the meal and, with warmth and nourishment having restored some measure of elasticity to muscles chilled and stiffened by hours on horseback, a gentle drowsiness crept over her and slowly her eyelids began to droop.

When Simon had finished his meal, he wiped his mouth on a napkin and once more fixed his attention on the youth. His head had fallen forward and his eyes were closed. Clearly the long ride was beginning to take its toll. He frowned. The more they were together, the more curious he became about his young companion. He’d already decided that he was a young person of no ordinary cleverness and intelligence. He noted that he ate much too daintily for a street urchin and there was a refined quality to his speech and in his manner that did not tie in with his outward appearance. His breeches and shirt were of poor quality, the breeches having seen much service, and his hair and face were clearly in need of soap and water. Yet his boots and cloak were of good quality and he had also noted that his horse was no ordinary nag, but a valuable blood horse, clearly out of the stables of a gentleman.

‘What—or whom—are you running away from?’ he asked suddenly.

All at once Henrietta’s eyes snapped open and she sat up with a start, wide awake on the instant. ‘Who said I was running away?’

‘You did—on the heath?’

After a moment and lowering her eyes, Henrietta nodded. ‘I am obliged to go to Scotland.’

‘And it’s a matter of life or death, if I remember correctly.’ She nodded. ‘Like to tell me about it?’ he said, ignoring what he had said about intruding on her privacy.

She shook her head. ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’ If he were to find out her true identity she wouldn’t be able to deal with the repercussions, and after her unpleasant encounter with those youths, she realised she had a better chance of reaching Scotland with this man to protect her—if he could be persuaded to take her with him.

‘And your parents?’

‘A hint of tears brightened the light green eyes as she spoke. ‘Both my parents are dead.’