Satan's Mark. Anne HerriesЧитать онлайн книгу.
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“You were not at fault, Mistress Woodward.
“But perhaps you ought not to come here alone in the future. There are men who might be tempted by such loveliness as yours, men who cannot be trusted to behave as they ought. These are dangerous times, and I would have you bring someone with you to protect you.”
“Oh…” Something in Justin’s look made Annelise’s heart beat faster. “You are kind, sir.”
“Kind?” Justin laughed, the devilment leaping up in his eyes. She was an innocent. How little she knew of men. “No, mistress, do not deceive yourself. Had you been other than you are, I might have done my best to lie with you this very day.”
Annelise lowered her gaze, her heart racing. His words ought to have made her angry. He had no right to say them to her, but somehow she did not mind….
Satan’s Mark
Anne Herries
ANNE HERRIES
lives in Cambridge, but spends part of the winter in Spain, where she and her husband stay in a pretty resort nestled amid the hills that run from Malaga to Gibraltar. Gazing over a sparkling blue ocean, watching the sunbeams dance like silver confetti on the restless waves, Anne loves to dream up her stories of laughter, tears and romantic lovers.
Contents
Chapter One
Annelise paused to glance over her shoulder as she heard a burst of raucous laughter. Three men had come staggering out of the inn behind her, their arms about each other’s shoulders; they were obviously in high good humour, seemingly the worse for strong drink as they laughed and shouted at some jest of their own.
Such behaviour was frowned on by her uncle and his friends—but these men were surely strangers?
Her heart raced wildly, nerves fluttering in sudden apprehension. They were Royalists! Cavaliers, soldiers, newly returned from wherever their wanderings had taken them these past years. She knew them by their extravagant manner of dressing, so different from her own much plainer garb, which was the simple gown and cap favoured by those of the Puritan persuasion.
The men were indulging in friendly horseplay, pushing each other as though they would fight a mock battle and creating a great deal of noise. They were obviously intoxicated, she thought, her face freezing into an expression of distaste as the tallest of them swept his hat off, making her an elegant bow; his action brought another burst of merriment from his companions.
‘Have at it, Justin—the wench is worth the bedding, I’ll vow.’
Annelise turned away, her cheeks flushed with annoyance as she realised the laughter concerned her this time. If this was how the new King’s supporters meant to behave after their long exile, her uncle was right—England would soon return to the bad old ways!
Sir Hugh Featherstone had been a close friend of Oliver Cromwell long before he had become the Lord Protector. Sir Hugh and Cromwell had fought together in the wicked Civil War, which, her uncle maintained, King Charles I had inflicted on his people, and the great man’s death had been truly mourned in the Featherstone house.
In her heart, Annelise had not really liked the Lord Protector, though she had respected him as she ought. She had found him a solemn, stern man, despite his kindness to her whenever they had met, and…
‘Mistress Woodward.’ The woman’s cry brought her from her reverie. ‘Pray wait a moment. I would have you carry a message to Lady Prudence.’
Annelise stopped at once, waiting for the woman to come up to her. She could hear the men laughing loudly just behind her, but refrained from looking back, suspecting that yet again some of their merriment might be on her account. She would not let them guess she had heard their wicked remarks about her person. Shame on them for their immodesty!
‘Goodwife Hale,’ she said with a smile as the woman arrived, puffing slightly from the effort. ‘What may I do for you?’
Mistress Hale was the wife of the village parson, a good, devout woman, though somewhat dour and stout of person. Beneath her plain black gown, with its collar of white linen, her more than adequate figure bulged and struggled for freedom, so that she resembled nothing so much as a bag of turnips tied up in the middle.
‘I wondered if…’ Mistress Hale halted as the three men passed by on their way from the inn, one of them brushing his arm carelessly against her basket. ‘Have a care, sir,’ she cried, glaring at him. She crossed herself fearfully. ‘Your kind are not welcome here. The mark of Satan is upon you.’
The Cavalier she had addressed could not hide his astonishment, for his carelessness had surely not warranted such a tirade. His brow creased, and for a moment Annelise thought he might strike the parson’s wife, such anger was in his face.
He was a large man, with a florid complexion and narrow-set eyes. Annelise felt a shiver run down her spine. Mistress Hale was surely unwise to speak so harshly to such a man? He and his kind were in command now, and no one could yet be sure how King Charles II would behave towards the followers of the men who had so cruelly killed his father. Better to tread carefully, to avoid confrontation.
‘Hell’s bells!’ the man muttered. ‘May a man not walk in the street now without being accosted by a shrew? A sorry place these Puritans have made of our merry England. I’ve a mind to teach you better manners, witch!’
‘Mistress Hale meant no harm,’ Annelise said quickly as she saw the older woman’s expression of indignation and feared a further outburst. ‘She was but startled, sir.’
The man’s dark eyes came to rest on her. Despite the plainness of her gown and headdress, nothing could deny the girl’s beauty. Only a few wisps of golden hair showed beneath her linen