ROMANTIC VENTURE

CHAPTER TEN

Maurette's preparations were meager but adequate, she felt. Throughout the day, she had stayed in her room, ordering cheeses and bread for her meals and then hiding them in a length of cloth She had emptied a basket of fruit that lay on a table near his bed. And she remembered to add the sugared treats. If she was careful, this small store would last her for days. She had money, too, but that was to buy silence if her father or Dominic became too close to her. They would, no doubt, begin a search the moment they found her missing. Maurette hesitated when she thought of her family.

Her father would be concerned for her safety. Her mother and Imogene would be struck with grief. However, she could not allow such sentiment to deter her; she must leave. It was, as she viewed it, her only hope.

Maurette heard footfalls in the gallery outside her chamber door She quickly slid into her bed and, moaning softly, shielded her eyes with a delicate forearm and her wrist over one side of the bed. Lolling her head from side to side, Maurette gave a good imitation, as she had for much of the day, of someone feeling under the weather.

"You are still not feeling well, little lady?" said Edyth as she bustled into the room. "Shall I get you a dosage of my medication? After seeing you earlier in the day, your mama suggested that it might be necessary."

Maurette stiffened. "No... please," she said with more force than she intended. Ever since Maurette could remember; the terrible, slimy concoction had been a part of her family's life. Health and vitality was so prized in the Harper household that, when one of their number did by some chance fall ill, Edyth was called upon to administer her brew, known to have amazing restorative powers. Two of its ingredients, it was rumored by those forced to sample it, were bat's blood and frog's eyes. Even if she were physically ill, she decided, the cure might be less welcome than the ailment, but her illness could not be aided by medicine. She was heart-sore and deeply aggrieved and filled with a terrible rage. No mixture of unholy powers could cure that.

Maurette had held off her family's ministrations by Insisting that she was only weary from the previous day's sojourn into the city and did not need the tonic. She prayed that she could deter their concern further, at least until night when she could slip out into the darkness and be on her way.

"Everyone is on the alert," Edyth said, shaking her head sadly, having listened to the poor child's lamentations throughout the long night. She moved to the ewer on Maurette's washing table, doused a cloth with cold water, and placed it on the girl's forehead. She looked down fondly on the pale young girl lying so despairingly on the bed.

Maurette turned over onto her stomach and feigned a restless sleep. Edyth drew up the covers and left the room Lingering just outside the chamber door, the old tiring woman breathed a ragged sigh and offered up a silent prayer that the child rely was ailing and not biding time while she planned some awesome imbroglio.

As soon as Edyth had left the room, Maurette was out of bed and on her feet. Running to the window, she noted the lengthening shadows of eventide slowly filling the garden below. She must hurry.

Gathering her breeches and shirt, she stuffed them into a small sack. She had. decided that she would travel as a lad, at least for the first days. Alarums would be out for a young lady, and if she was spotted, she wanted not to be recognized. She would keep to the countryside for the most part, but she knew that she must pass through London, in order to travel north, and through many small villages before she reached the hamlet of Islington. Though she was known there, she felt that she could live better in a place where she understood the land. She would stay in the great forests and live among the animals and birds that she had, over the years, befriended there. She would find sustenance in the nuts and berries that kept them alive.

When she was ready to send word to her parents, she would move to the outskirts of the village and find some young acquaintance to aid her in her cause. Perhaps she could go to Tim or, even better, to Arthur Warwick. He was not above any prank that would make fools of the adults and their stuffy morality. But all of that was far in the future. First she must make her plans to leave the house itself and go through the city while darkness shrouded her escape.

She had managed to tell a young stableboy to saddle Melitte in preparation for a long ride when darkness came. The boy was smitten with her anyway, and she had, with the weapon of her displeasure, sworn him to silence. Now, with food and money secured, she sat at her small writing desk to carry out the hardest task of this whole business.

She must write a note to her family. She decided that the news of her departure should go through her grandmother. She hoped that Ladyy Violet's calm assessment of the situation would serve to mollify the family's horror at her act. She hoped, too, that. her grandmother's understanding and avowed acceptance of Maurette's actions would serve as a buffer to the family's response.

Maurette rolled the plumed pen between her fingers. She contemplated deeply what she would say to them. She could not allow any indication of her destination, and she wanted desperately for them to gain some insight into her reasoning. She could not explain her reasons, however, if she did not truly understand them herself.

She knew that she must buy time for herself. She knew that, knowing what she now knew about Dominic's feelings for her, she would not tamely give herself to him and hoped she could negotiate her freedom from the hated contract. If she could not, she would stay away until the damnable Warbrooke had finally lost interest in her. That circumstance might occur more quickly than any of them imagine, given his cruel dismissal of her earnest confession to him the night before. She bit her lip as she felt shame and hurt rise to wrench her heart.

The sob that escaped her became a searing rasp. "The loathsome bastard," she cried, pounding the hard surface of her desk and sending inkwell and paperweight scattering. Hot, wrathful tears dropped onto the parchment before her.

Without further thought, she began to write.

Dearest Grandmama,

By the time you read this, I shall be far away. I offer only that I shall keep myself safe.

The reason for my leaving is, in truth, the same. I must protect myself from the awful Warbrooke. He is more than a scoundrel than any of us had imagined. Trust me that I am far better roaming the world than in his dreaded clutches.

I shall send word of my plans for the negotiation of my freedom from him when I feel the time is at hand.

The message was without sentiment, and that was the way she wanted it to be. She did not wish any of them to imagine that she could be cajoled out of her purpose.

Maurette signed the missive and folded and sealed it She then tucked it beneath her pillow where Edyth would find it in the morning. By that time, Maurette would be safely headed north.

With determination, she turned to her mirror and faced another practical consideration in this business-what to do about her hair. She contemplated chopping off the thick tresses but despaired of that. Would she allow Warbrooke to cause her the further humiliation of. mutilating her crowning glory? She would not! Perhaps she could hide it somehow. Furrowing her smooth brow, she regarded her reflection and experimented with pinning her hair on the top of her head. When she had piled it thus she found a long swathe of blue muslin at the bottom of a chest and wrapped it round her head. She surveyed the results. With the scarf securely tucked and tied at the back and wearing her breeches and shirt, she was satisfied that she would look every bit the farm lad traveling back to his country home. She quickly unwound the kerchief lest anyone should burst in on her and stuffed it into the sack. Everything was at the ready, she decided and lay upon her bed to await the darkness into which she would steal.

At last the house was silent. One by one the family had entered her room before retiring to inquire about her health. She had assured them that all she needed was rest, they had left her, happy in the belief that Maurette was only weary. Her father had admonished her that, or not, she must on the morrow, face Dominic Warbrooke and the signing of the precontract. Her mother had reminded her that he was not a patient man and the family had warded him off all this day with the word of her ailment, but, she had warned, he had been barely appeased. Maurette had reassured her mother that, after a night's sleep, she would do what was expected of her.

Only lady Violet had seemed reluctant to accept her explanation of her day's confinement.

Her brow had quirked with a question when Maurette had embraced her with extra affection.

"I love you deeply, Grandmama," Maurette had said in what the dowager felt to be an excess of fondness.

" 'Tis only a good-night hug, dear child," she had said smilingly. "are you planning a sea voyage?"

Maurette had uttered a startled laugh. "Naturally not, Grandmama " 'Tis only that I wish you to know how I feel."

"I do, child," the older woman had said knowingly. "Now sleep, and I shall come first thing in the morn to see you." She had left Maurette with the feeling that she alone was aware of her plans.

Shrugging off that shivery sense of her grandmother's prescience, Maurette sprang from her bed. She began to gather the accouterments of her journey. She removed a long, gray woolen cloak from her chest and placed it round her shoulders, puling the hood close about her face. After listening at her chamber door until she was confident no one loitered in the gallery, she moved silently from her room and down the back staircase.

In the kitchen, she stopped to stuff some small corncakes left in the larder into her food sack. She wrapped a quantity of sugar for Melitte and stuffed several carrots and dried apple slices in with her own food. She would use these not only as treats for her little mare but also as silencers in the event that they needed to hide from a passing traveler or some searcher who came too close.

Pushing against the back gate, Maurette entered the stableyard. Melitte whickered in friendly greeting as Maurette moved toward her and offered her a sweet slice of sugared apple. The mare munched it quietly as Maurette scrambled with difficulty onto her blanketed and saddled back. With as much stealth as possible, she directed her little mare away from the house and into the dark of the night.

When horse and rider had gone south nearly a mile into the countryside; Maurette stopped and dismounted. Loosening the lacings of her gown, she stepped out of it. To the accompaniment of crickets and small night-creature sounds, she worked feverishly to free herself of her stiff corset and farthingale. The crisp night air assaulted her naked skin as she fumbled in the sack for her breeches and shirt. Dressed in only a thin shift of the most delicate lace and lawn, she cursed herself for not having changed in the warmth of her house, but, in truth, she could not have risked it. If anyone had spotted her leaving, she had been prepared, with her baggage secreted beneath her cloak, to say that she was in need of exercise before being able to fall to sleep.

At last she found the breeches, which she slipped on and the cambric blouse. Next, she wound the length of cloth round her head. Then, placing her clothes near a large tree, she deliberately ruffled them. The searchers, whom she imagined would come with the dawn's full light, might find them there and discern that she had removed them, as she had done, to change into other clothing. But with luck they would also assume that she had then proceeded in that same direction from the house. Instead, Maurette, stiffening against the chill of the spring night, doubled back through the moist forest and headed toward London. She rode swiftly along the road from her house but slowed her pace when she entered the city.

Lamps had been lit throughout the town, and only a few stragglers inhabited the darkly illumined streets. All was quiet except the alehouses, from which could be heard the noisy din of men's voices. Bursts of laughter emanated from one yellow doorway while raucous singing poured from another.

Maurette felt lonely and isolated as she traversed the center of a cobbled street. Melitte's hooves clopped smartly over the night-dampened stones. At this slow pace, Maurette thought dismally, it would take hours to pass through the city, but she could not risk a faster trot. First, she did not want to draw undue attention by racing through the streets of London at his late hour, and second, she feared injury to her horse. Melitte had proved a boon companion on many occasions, but tonight and for many nights to come the little horse would be Maurette's only companion and sole means of escape. She continued the maddeningly stolid pace she had set for herself.

Suddenly, from one of the yellow doorways, a young man was propelled with astonishing velocity into the street directly into the path of horse and rider. Melitte shied and whinnied vigorously in an attempt to avoid the man, who was followed by a tumbling mass of male bodies and a shouting force of red-faced elder citizens.

"I told ye lads to do yer drinkin' elsewhere," hollered a bald-headed fellow. His ample belly was covered by a dirty apron, and he appeared to be the leader of the group who had ejected the unwanted revelers. "Ye'll come back to th' same treatment each time. Be warned!" He turned back to the other men and, shaking their heads indignantly and grumbling boisterously, they moved back into the dim interior of the alehouse. "I'll have no actors here," said the aproned one, shaking his hammy fist vehemently. "Nay but trouble are they." He slammed the door that had been opened to the cool night.

"Trouble," said one of those evicted, placing his fingertips against his tender jaw. "I see no trouble but that caused by that red-nosed buffoon." He tested the workings of his injured face carefully.

"Easy, Tom," said a calmer voice. "We cannot afford to ruffle the feathers of the good townsfolk. Tomorrow those brawns will be laying down their pennies to watch us perform."

>From where Maurette she sat on Melitte, she looked down upon the sprawling men. The mare whickered impatiently and pranced in astonishment at the scene. As Maurette tried to calm the animal, she realized that the men were the same players at her birthday ball.

The calm one was now rising and brushing at his hose.

"I say we add a word or two in our next performance. Perhaps, we should include a scene where a large florid oaf is bested by a small-but brilliant-young poet. What say you, masters," he said, laughing and urging the men to their feet. He offered a hand to the irate Tom, who took it and joined the others in their anticipation of the next day's performance.

Maurette cleared her throat delicately. In a circle of dim yellow lamplight, the men were straightening their clothing and congratulating each other on blows well taken and did not notice Maurette. She slid down from her horse and approached them.

"Pardon me," she said gently. "I hope that none of you have been injured." The players regarded her in surprise, and then seeing the pretty horse that she held in tether, they smiled and realized what must have transpired.

"'Twould appear we needs ask you the same question, lad," said the man who seemed to be the leader of the group. "In our self-absorption, we considered not your circumstance." He clapped Maurette on the back in a spirited show of friendship that threw her forward and into the circle of men. The man winked gaily at his companions. "This pretty lad needs a bit of growing before a manly gesture is thrust upon him. Sorry, Son," he said, steadying Maurette. "How old are you?"

Maurette thought quickly. "Thirteen, sir," she said; lowering her voice to a husky whisper.

"A grand age," said the gentleman, and the others agreed. "And what name do you call yourself?"

"Dan, sir,,' Maurette said, taking the name of the lad who had saddled her horse.

"We could use a lad such as Yourself. Young Tom here is getting too long in the tooth to be playing the ingenue." The laughing men agreed heartily. Only "young Tom" declined to join the joviality of his friends.

"I have told you that, sir, for many months," he stated archly. "But you would have me play the simper till I grow wizened and die, I fear. From my mewling, piddling youth to me mewling piddling old age, I shall be forced to be en role as the wavering, hesitating females of your imagination."

The other men pressed amiably in on the indignant young actor, but he pushed them aside and regarded Maurette. "Now, there is a face for your needs, masters Dan, here, is what I looked like once. See you the difference between us?" He grasped Maurette's face roughly in his hand and put his own near to hers. "See you, men, finally and forever that I am no peach-fuzzed boy?"

"Not even peach fuzz on that one," said one of the men raucously.

Maurette pulled away from the unwanted perusal. "Me-thinks," she said, smiling faintly, "that this ado is for naught. I am no actor, gentlemen."

"But you need not be precisely an actor, young fellow," said another of the men. "We could teach you. We art masters all," he added, swaggering away from the group. "Where think you the Burbages learned and Master Kemp? From the likes of us," he said prideful. The other men chided his boasting. "'Tis true, 'tis true. We may not have that fancy edifice built for plays, but we have something better. We have Master Shakespeare." The others laughingly agreed.

"Tune down your boasts except on that score, old fellow," said another man. "We do, in truth, have Master Shakespeare. His worth outshines that fancy edifice a thousand times." The men added their heartiest agreement.

Master Shakespeare, the man Maurette had perceived to be their leader, smiled in self-deprecation. "Now, now, good fellows," he said gently, "You must needs end this praise lest Master Burbage, himself, hear you and snatch me from your midst. I am but a lowly poet attempting to earn his living at this dastardly trade."

The others laughed.

"I would tell you, though, young lad, the men are right. We could teach you. If you've no other preoccupation and if you want to learn, we could give you those tools with which actors are made. And, in truth," he said, kindly placing a hand on Maurette's shoulder, "the acing life, despite what you have witnessed tonight, is not such a bad one."

"We are a happy lot. When the weather avails us, we sleep beneath the stars." He swept a hand toward the starry arch of sky above the dirty lamp-lit street. "We have some food which kindly patrons offer us from time to time. The rest we catch and cook ourselves. We have little need for money save what it costs to keep our families. And best of all," he said, leaning in to Maurette, "we have the richness of the world and all there is in it to teach us what we have to know 'Tis not a bad life." He smiled fondly down into Maurette's eyes. "A boy such as yourself could, in truth, find a pleasant living in such circumstances."

Maurette lowered her gaze. "If I were, in truth, a lad-" She stopped short. "I mean, a lad for such a vocation, I would gladly go with you, sir," she said huskily. "But I have other business to attend that cannot allow for my own desires. It is family business, you see," Maurette went on hastily. "I have a mother who is ill and in need of my young strength to keep her farm." That is very good, she said to herself as she appraised what she had just uttered without thinking. Perhaps I should be an actor, she thought.

"Ah," said William Shakespeare, "'tis a noble course you follow young sir. And where is your home?"

With only a small moment's hesitation, Maurette said, "Islington, sir."

"Why, that is where we travel this night. We have a cart and horse at the stable, and we were ready to make our journey home. We are staying, while the weather is warm, on Warwick lands."

Maurette's eyes widened in astonishment. "They are neighbors, sir." she blurted. Then, remembering her charade, she added, "I mean that we tenant a farm very near to the Warwick estate."

"Then you must join us for the journey," said William Shakespeare kindly. "The burden of travel is lighter when one has friends to share the time. Come and join us, little fellow."

"Yes," said Maurette, smiling deeply, "I think that will be most satisfactory. I will join you, sirs."

Tom gazed at her. "He speaks well and is as pretty a lad as I have ever seen. Oh, but for his ailing mother, I could pull myself out of this mire of femininity in which I suffocate." He placed a friendly arm across Maurette's shoulders as they ambled toward the stable. "If your dam recovers within this season," he said with good-natured resignation, "you will send word to me. And," he added, pointing a finger in Maurette's direction, "you will consider no other occupation than the theater."

Maurette nodded. "I vow that I shall do what you ask," she said with a secret smile.

Snuggled low in the big lumbering cart, Maurette felt warm and cozy. She was warmed not only by the many blankets that were tucked under and around her, but by the good fellowship that abounded in the company of her new friends. She wished desperately that she could somehow stay with them, but she knew that to be impossible. In the first place, she could not for long keep her sex a secret in the company of such open and free-spirited gentlemen. They would without doubt discover her. And though she did not fear their betrayal, she well understood that someone might discover her secret. And, if discovered, she would hold her family up to the most scandalous censure. A woman who consorted with actors was considered beneath the prostitute plying her favors in the street. A traveling wench was the most contemptible of women. Beyond all that and in the second place, if, in the spirit of their generous natures, the actors decided to aid in her concealment, they, too, would be laying themselves open to terrible punishment. An actor's lot, though a happy one as pointed out by Master Shakespeare, was also a precarious one. Their freedom was tentative, and their collective reputation was ever a source of repugnance.

As evidenced by the prejudicial behavior of the townsfolk this night, many people needed no provocation to condemn these good men. Though she hated the thought, Maurette knew that, as soon as they reached Islington, she must bid them adieu.

She straightened herself and peeked over the edge of the cart to satisfy herself that Melitte was still in tow. The little horse was restless with the slow pace set by the plodding farm horse that pulled the wagon, but otherwise ungrieved. The way was fairly simple, though long and easily trod, and was clearly marked by low foliage on each side. Maurette watched the road from London slowly disappear in the darkness behind them.

Suddenly her eyes widened. Far back against the midnight gloom of the wood, she saw a darker shape riding toward them. "Tom," she said, poking the young man next to her, "look. Could it be a highwayman?"

The others focused their attention on the murky shadows in back of the cart. Tom chuckled softly. "If it is a thief," he said," 'twill be the saddest day he ever had." All the men laughed quietly. "In truth, an actor is one notch above a highwayman, some would tell you. Perhaps a kindred spirit will prevail, and we can jolly him out of cutting out throats."

Nervous whispers could be heard above the creaking of the cart wheels as the rider gained on them. "Do not be concerned, Dan," Tom said broadly, dismissing his own anxiety. "Those sluggards are cowardly to a man." He turned to the others. "What think you, men? Shall we pull aside and let this lone rider pass?"

In hushed voices, the men agreed and bade the driver pull to the side of the road and stop.

"They usually travel in packs," said Will Shakespeare, straining to make out the dark shape that bore down upon them. He turned to his companions, and a glint could be seen in his bright eyes even in the darkness. "If 'tis a rogue who wishes our money," he said through a small smile, "we shall at the least have saved that poor steed of his from further chase. He is setting a fearsome pace for the beast."

The passengers watched as the dark shape grew in proportion to its progress toward them. " 'Tis a fine animal, though," said one man, and they all agreed as horse and rider advanced.

Maurette's heart lurched. She knew the horse now, if not the rider. Very soon, however, seeing the heavy black cloak flying behind him and the flowing silver-raven hair glinting in the pale moonlight, Maurette knew the rider, too. She swallowed hard. Dominic Warbrooke was upon them.

Maurette scuttled down into the blankets next to Tom. He seemed to sense, without the necessity of words, that she needed hiding. Together they hoisted the heavy coverings over her head, and she huddled there next to him.

The great black stallion skidded to a halt beside the cart. Its black-cloaked rider spoke from the height of the animal's back.

"Ho, there, men," his voice boomed over the quiet forest road. "I am Dominic Warbrooke. I seek a young lady who has run off from the Harper estate near London. You have her horse tied to the back of your cart and I would know how you came by it."

William Shakespeare stood. "That horse was the mount of a young lad, sir. We met him at an alehouse in the city. If 'tis true that the, pretty steed is another's property, we beg you take the animal and leave us in peace,"

Dominic dismounted with powerful grace. "What lad?" he said, moving toward the cart.

"A young lad named Dan," said Will serenely. "We wish no conflict, sir, and will gladly relinquish the animal."

Dominic peered over the side of the cart. In the darkness he saw the figures of several young men. Their friendly faces were illuminated only by the starlight that peered down from the sky through tall trees.

"We are actors, my lord," said one of them. "Patroned this season by lord Warwick of Islington. We are Lord Warwick's men and guaranteed by him." The man held a large shape close to his side. Dominic could not make out what it was because of the darkness and because it was partially sheathed by a blanket. It was probably some accouterment of their trade, he thought, and turned back to Will Shakespeare, who was now standing on the ground beside the cart.

"And what is your name, sir?" Dominic said as he eyed the actor.

"My name, good sir, is William Shakespeare." He bowed deeply.

Dominic appraised him. "You played at the Harper house but two nights past, did you not?" He recognized the man as one of the actors he had seen at the ball, though he had not paid close attention to the entertainment.

"We did my lord. And we deeply pray that you enjoyed our performance."

Dominic nodded curtly. " 'Twas amusing," he said. "I seek the lady in whose honor the ball was held."

"Lady Maurette?" said the actor.

"'Tis she. Have you seen her?"

"Only the lad, sir."

"Is he among your number?"

Will paused. The other men did not move. Maurette felt a band and of steel tighten round her heart. She could not allow these men to be harmed on her account.

"Are you deaf, master?". said Dominic. "Did you bring the lad with you? I would question him."

Suddenly Maurette stood up. She stood quickly before she lost her courage. "I am here, sir," she said through a tangle of blankets that clung to her legs and shoulders.

Dominic's head came around.

"Step down, boy," He commanded.

Maurette did so, and Dominic advanced until he stood directly over her. "I only borrowed the horse, sir," she whispered huskily.

"Where is the lady?"

"I know not," said Maurette, keeping her eyes lowered.

"Where was she when you found her horse?"

"At the alehouse, sir." Maurette was frightened but determined to brazen out this confrontation. "The lady seemed to be attempting to book passage on a ship. I told her that I would tend her horse while she was about her business." She was thinking very fast now. This might be the perfect story to get the searchers off her trail. "The lady left with a man after a time. I think he was a sea captain. She must have forgotten her horse. I took it, sir, with no harm intended."

Dominic regarded the lad for a long time. "You will come with me, boy," he said sternly.

Maurette shot him a look of terror and then quickly lowered her eyes once again. "Please, my lord," she said hoarsely, "take the steed and let me go."

The men were all on their feet by now, and some had jumped from the cart to gather round Maurette. "He is but a lad, sir," said one of the actors. Another joined in.

"He will harm no one, we will see to that." The others agreed noisily, but Dominic was firm.

"The lad goes with me," he said sternly. "Lord Harper will deal with him in his own way."

"Let reason guide you, my lord," said William Shakespeare. "The boy is no criminal. His mother tenants a farm near Warwick lands, and she is ill."

Dominic shot the man a riveting gaze, but seeing the congenial warmth in the , extraordinary eyes, he said, "Lord Harper is no tyrant, Master Shakespeare. He only wants his daughter back. This lad will be better for a lesson learned."

Dominic turned crisply, and with Maurette's arm firmly held in his big hand, he pushed her ungently to her horse. "Mount the steed, lad," he said sternly. He watched as she struggled mightily and finally landed in a heap atop Melitte's back. Then he bounded onto Durham.

The actors pressed forward. They were alarmed at Dominic's rough treatment of the boy and anxious for his ultimate welfare. Maurette looked down upon her new-found friends.

"Fear not for me, gentlemen," she said fondly. "I know Lord Harper to be a fair man. As for this ... noble fellow, I fear nothing from him. He will not harm me as long as I have your witness that he has taken me. If I am able, I will meet you in Islington. Good night, friends."

Dominic eyed her and decided he would make his own speech. "The boy has nothing to fear from me. As to his mother, I will send word that while her son works off his debt, she is to be cared for. She will not go hungry, masters, nor her farm go untended." He wheeled his mighty horse, and the two rode off into the darkness of the forest road.

The actors watched sadly as they rode off.

"Perhaps, once we are at Islington, we shall see the boy again." said Tom.

"I make no claim to prescience," said William Shakespeare "But I have the sense that we shall see the lad again."

The actors moved with heavy hearts back to the wagon, and once more they stared their journey toward Islington.

"Hold," said Dominic when the two of them had gone a distance. "Have you a coat, young sir?"

Maurette shook her head. Dominic moved his big animal to the side of her horse. He put an arm around her waist, and with a sharp tug, he pulled her onto Durhan's broad back. Then he spread his cloak around them both.

"The night grows chill," he said. With Melitte in tow, they proceeded back to Harper House.