Tori Phillips - Fool's Paradise

“I would rather die than marry that varlet,” she muttered under her breath. Adjusting her dark blue travel cloak, Elizabeth squared her shoulders for the long trek ahead of her.

Repulsed by the preening nobleman she left behind her, Elizabeth had slipped out of Esmond Manor at dawn with only a saddle pouch containing food and a few personal items. Her mind full of escaping her betrothed’s brutish manner, Elizabeth paid no attention to Thunder’s habitual skittishness until it was too late. One minute she was high in the saddle and well on her way to Hampton Court and to her godmother, Queen Elizabeth. The next, Thunder, balking at a hare, pitched Elizabeth sideways onto the road.

“Thank the good Lord I have not broken any bones,” she consoled herself. “And, at least, I still have my money.” Her hand closed over the leather bag of golden angels and silver shillings that hung from her girdle.

“There must be an inn or a farm nearby,” Elizabeth told herself as she picked her way along the verge, carefully keeping her long blue velvet skirts out of the mud puddles. “And the day promises to be fair.”

She wondered how long it would take Thunder to return to his stable. If he ran all the way, it would be no more than an hour. “When he is found with all my things in his pack, Sir Robert will know I have escaped my room and he will come looking for me—that is, if he hasn’t already discovered I’ve gone.”

Elizabeth hoped that her faithful maid, Charlotte, did not suffer from Sir Robert’s anger. She touched her cheek, where she could still feel the sting of his hand, though it had been over a day since he struck her. The memory of that pain and the twisted look on his face spurred Elizabeth down the tree-shaded road, no matter what lay ahead.

“Sweet angels, please let there be no boars in this wood,” she prayed, gripping a small pair of gold embroidery scissors that hung from a slender chain at her waist.

When Thunder had crested a hillock and Elizabeth first sighted the wood, she judged its size to be small and not too forbidding. Now that she found herself alone and on foot in the middle of it, the thick foliage of the oaks and elms appeared much more threatening. The friendly twitter of unseen birds among the branches overhead did little to calm her nerves. Elizabeth had never been abroad without an escort before. Nothing in her schooling at the Convent of Sacre Coeur in Reims had prepared her for such a desperate plight as this. Her ears strained to catch the slightest rustling in the thick undergrowth, which might announce the presence of a fox or a bear or…

“The keeper would a-hunting go…” The cheery song, heartily sung in a pleasing baritone, wafted on a breeze through the green wood.

Elizabeth stopped at the sound. Her heart thumping wildly in its cage, she gripped her scissors tighter. Never in her nineteen years had she been alone with a man other than her father or the manor’s steward—not until the coming of Sir Robert La Faye. She shuddered as the leering face of that vile lord rose in her mind’s eye. No man alive boded more ill for her than he! Elizabeth would take her chances with the unknown singer.

“…among the leaves so green-o!”

The songster sounded friendly to Elizabeth—and familiar. Only two nights ago she had heard that song sung before her father’s festive table by a merry traveling player. Sir Thomas Hayward had hired a jester to entertain at the feast marking Elizabeth’s betrothal to Sir Robert. Elizabeth bit her lip. Her wonderful, loving father, God rest his soul!

“Hey now! Ho, now! Derry, derry down! Among the leaves so green-o!” The singer punctuated his music with a great deal of splashing and gurgling noises.

The sounds came from a thicket to the left. Stepping cautiously into the tangled underbrush and parting the sapling branches of a hickory, Elizabeth saw the sparkle of a small river snaking in and out of the verdant surroundings. The singer’s voice, now stronger, came from behind a large clump of holly bushes.

“To me hay down-down, to me ho down-down…” More splashing intermixed with joyful whoops accompanied the chorus.’

Drawn by the song and the singer’s apparent cheerfu nature, Elizabeth crept up to the screening holly. Holding her voluminous skirts above the twigs and bracken, she clutched her tiny scissors.

A stick snapped underfoot. To Elizabeth, the resulting crack sounded like gunfire from a fowling piece.

The singer, on the other hand, did not appear to notice hi secret audience. He repeated the chorus, though the direc tion of his voice changed slightly. Drawing her cloak more tightly about her, Elizabeth crouched down behind the holly clump and gently poked her fingers through its prickly, glossy leaves. In front of her, the river widened, forming a small pool. On the bank nearby lay a pair of brown woolen breeches and a beige homespun shirt. Their owner was no where to be seen, though she could still hear him humming the tune of his song. Elizabeth pulled back the branches a little farther in order to see what manner of man she had stumbled upon.

“Stand and show thyself!” a deep voice growled behind her.

Elizabeth stiffened, her heart nearly leapt from he mouth. Trembling more from fright than from the early morning’s chill, she slowly rose unsteadily to her feet. Hid den amid the folds of her cloak, Elizabeth’s hand clutched her scissors. She would defend her honor to the end, if nec essary.

Thrning to face him, she gasped. The man pointed a long, wicked-looking dagger at her throat. The morning sun glinted off its sharp blade. Her assailant was hard muscled, dripping wet—and completely naked. Crystal rivulet coursed down his broad chest, angled at his slim hips and disappeared into his…

Elizabeth’s eyes widened. She had never seen a man without his clothes before, and this particular specimen looked singularly well-made. The warmth of a deep blush swept over her. The churl grinned.

“Heaven protect and defend me!” Whirling, Elizabeth plunged blindly through the nettles and thorny bracken.

“Stop! Wait! Not that way!” her attacker called. But it was too late. In her haste, Elizabeth lost her footing on the slippery bank and fell headlong into the cold river.

Her heavy velvet overskirt quickly weighed her down. The fashionable bum roll around her waist greedily soaked up the water, pulling her beneath the surface. Panic gripping her soul, Elizabeth thrashed wildly to the surface. As she struggled to unclasp the hook of her woolen cloak, her pursuer grasped her around her waist, pulling her against his chest. She shook the water from her eyes and fought for breath. The strong arm around her tightened.

“Unhand me! How dare you!” Elizabeth flailed her arms helplessly as he half carried, half dragged her to the shore. “You will pay for this outrage! You do not know whom you have attacked!”

The varlet answered with a rich, almost musical laugh as he pushed her up onto the muddy bank.

“If I had let you go, you would have drowned,” he remarked as he hoisted himself out of the river. “And I do, indeed, know full well who you are, Lady Elizabeth Hayward,” he continued, shaking the water from his brown curly hair. Sitting down companionably beside her, he drew up one leg, hiding the most intriguing part of his anatomy from her gaze.

“How?” She drew back from him, trying to regain both her breath and her composure. She tried to avoid staring at his lithe body. “Who are you?”

“Do you not recognize Tarleton, the jester?” He pulled a sorrowful face. “I had the honor of entertaining at your noble father’s home. I believe you were celebrating your betrothal.” He laughed easily, the richness of that cheerful sound echoing in the woods around them. “Were you so entranced by your new love that poor Tarleton and his jests were all for naught?”