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  Philip raised his head, but continued to hold her hand in his. “I would do nothing to compromise your reputation, my lovely lady. Come, let us walk over into the sunlight where we can be easily seen and no one can accuse us of skulking in the shadows.”

  Alysa laughed and let herself be guided over to the balustrade. She thought that Philip looked every inch the Royalist gentleman in his blue velvet doublet, black cloak lined with matching blue satin and wide black breeches, extravagantly fringed with blue ribbon loops and rosettes. She gazed up at him admiringly and said sincerely, “I doubt that you would ever skulk, my dear Philip. You are too forthright for that.”

  He turned his head away to look at something to the left of them. The wide brim of his low-crowned beaver hat hid the expression on his face. “Look,” he said softly, pointing. Not far away a goldfinch, returning early from its annual migration, hovered over the balustrade, then gently landed for a brief respite. The beautifully marked bird was there but an instant before it was again on its way, yet for that short time both Philip and Alysa admired its fragile beauty. When it had flown away, Philip turned back to Alysa, smiling. “The goldfinch is a beautiful, delicate creature, much like you, my lady Alysa.”

  Warmth washed through Alysa. Though Philip’s words could be nothing more than the empty compliments of a courtier, the expression deep in his eyes was sincere. She blushed, but deliberately turned her hand so that she could twine her fingers in his. “I thank you for the compliment, Philip,” she said in a low, husky voice, “but I am merely a flesh-and-blood woman with all the faults and needs that state entails.”

  A light flared hotly in his eyes. “And I am but a flesh-and-blood man. Alysa, I would speak to your father, but I cannot at this time. I must wait, though I do not want to.”

  Excitement, elation, satisfaction and a dozen other emotions shivered through Alysa. This was a proposal of marriage, no matter how obliquely Philip had couched it. Then an image of Thomas on the beach, being chased by the Protectorate troops sneaked into Alysa’s mind and put a momentary damper on her delight. She nodded quickly. “I understand, Philip, of course I do! Papa has too many immediate problems to concern himself with my future.”

  Philip squeezed her hand, before gently removing his. “If he gave his permission for us to marry, Alysa, how would you feel?”

  The excitement returned, stronger than before. Alysa laughed and cupped his face in her hands. “You have to ask?”

  “Yes,” he said seriously, but he was smiling at her jubilation.

  “I did not think I would ever find a man who could move me as you do, Philip.” Her eyes and voice had become as serious as his. Her hands remained warm on his face. “In many ways you are a mystery to me and yet I trust you implicitly. From the beginning you intrigued me, even when no one in my family was sure whether you were a Roundhead spy or a loyal Royalist—What is it?”

  Philip’s expression had tightened forbiddingly. He caught her wrists and pulled her hands away from his face. “You thought I was a Roundhead spy?”

  Relief flooded over Alysa, drowning her momentary dismay. She told herself that it was good that they were finally having this conversation, for doubt had hovered between them for too long. “The question did come up from time to time. You must remember, Philip, that you were a stranger here. Old Sir Richard Hampton rarely spoke about his two nephews and no one had seen you in years. With the country in confusion after the death of Oliver Cromwell, those loyal to the king were hopeful that a rebellion would finally bring him home for good. We were very aware that we could not afford to have an agent of the Protectorate in our midst.”

  Grimly, Philip said, “What made you decide that I was what I appeared to be?”

  “Time,” Alysa said simply. “When you seemed attracted to me, I offered to encourage your advances so that I could get to know you better. Papa was reluctant at first, but eventually he agreed to my plan.” The expression on Philip’s face was still and dangerous. Alysa hurried on, determined to complete her confession and get the worst behind them. “As you courted me, I learned that you were a man of honor, as well as one I could respect. I told Papa that I did not believe that you would seek to harm our family, and I believed it, then and now.”

  She gazed up into his fathomless brown eyes, pledging him her trust and promising her love. His eyes searched her face, probing the depth of her honesty, but his own expression was unreadable. After a moment he pulled away to stare unseeing across the broad green lawns. “You shouldn’t have done that, Alysa.”

  She touched him tentatively on the shoulder. “Are you telling me that you are not the Royalist brother, Philip? That my family should be wary of you? That you are the spy who has been plaguing West Easton?”

  He drew a deep breath and let it out again forcefully. “No. I am not the spy who almost cost your brother his freedom. You must look to your own ranks for that. But I am not what you imagine me to be, Alysa. I am a simple soldier who has retired from active duty, nothing more. Do not make me into what I am not.”

  Her grip on his shoulder firmed and she turned him toward her. “What I see in you, Philip, I have not imagined. We are all more than we think we are or can be. I know that if the time came for you to make a decision, you would make the right one. I know it!”

  Taking both her hands in his, Philip rubbed the soft skin with his thumb as he gazed deep into her eyes. The movement had a slow, seductive rhythm to it that hypnotized Alysa. “By whose definition of what is right?”

  She smiled up at him, her eyes trusting. “By yours, dear sir. For I know that your definition and mine are the same.”

  *

  With the troops in the area, the need to set a date and a site for another meeting of those committed to seeing the king restored became both imperative and impossible. Lord Strathern believed it was necessary for his son to complete his business and leave England as soon as could be arranged, but at the same time, a meeting of a large number of men would be noticed and commented upon, thus alerting the military. They would naturally investigate and would most likely arrest Thomas as well as all of the prominent gentlemen attending.

  So the question of where and when to hold the meeting remained while Thomas skipped from hiding place to hiding place. He seemed to be safest in the cottages of the tenant farmers, for Lieutenant Weston had apparently taken to heart Philip Hampton’s promise of retribution should any lowly innocents be harmed. The lieutenant made a habit of avoiding these dwellings. Possibly, he assumed a man of Thomas’s rank would not demean himself by residing in a peasant’s cottage.

  Whatever the reason, Thomas was never close to being captured while he stayed at one of the lowly cottages. He did come near to it, though, on the one evening he visited Ingram Abbey.

  He had gone there to consult with his father, Cedric Ingram and one or two others on what to do about having the meeting. Since Lord Strathern suspected that he was being watched, Cedric Ingram convinced Thomas and the others that it was too risky for Thomas to leave the abbey after the discussion was over. Instead he suggested that Thomas stay the night in a room in the oldest part of the house, which had been boarded up since the war had curbed the fortune of the Ingram family. Cedric was certain the troops would not think to search there.

  Thomas had accepted the suggestion, but once he was in the tiny chamber, he had second thoughts. The room was very dark, for shutters had been placed over the only small window. Dust lay thickly over everything and the air had a dank, musty smell caused by being closed up for years. The unpleasant conditions were not as bad as some Thomas had endured, but still he was edgy. He paced about the small room, telling himself that the lack of light and the neglect were friends, not enemies. No matter how many ways he tried to convince himself, however, he could not. He felt caged—trapped and vulnerable. He knew he could not spend the night in this shabby place.

  He slipped out of the room as soon as the house was asleep. For some reason he didn’t want anyone to know tha
t he had left the hiding place. Perhaps his caution was the result of tension caused by being shut into the small closed cell, or perhaps it was simply basic survival instinct. Whatever the reason, he obeyed his inclination without question. His intuitive sense had saved him in strange situations before.

  A full moon guided his steps as he emerged silently from the house to the grassy park outside. He headed for the stables, where his horse, a nondescript brown cob, had been settled for the night. Though it was a beast no one would pick from a herd of farm horses, Thomas wanted to be sure it had been properly bedded down so that it looked as if it belonged with the other Ingram horses.

  He found the cob in a large loose box between a finely boned chestnut stallion and a lean gray hunter. With the two well-bred horses on either side, the little cob stood out like the scar on Thomas’s cheek. He frowned, for it seemed to him that his mount had been stabled elsewhere when he arrived. He shrugged, assuming he was mistaken. Silently he drifted about the abbey outbuildings, looking for a more suitable place to house the cob.

  He found it in a barn where hay was stored and several sturdy workhorses used to plow the fields or pull carts were tied in narrow stalls that allowed them little room to move about. It took him but a moment to discover that there was space for another horse. Swiftly, Thomas decided he would move his mount here, rather than leave the grounds altogether, for the troops would never believe an excuse if he was caught riding about the countryside at night.

  After he had tied the cob with the other workhorses, he climbed up into the hayloft and settled in for the night.

  Some hours later his precautions were justified. He woke to the sound of men shouting and horses stamping their hooves on the hard-packed earth around the outbuildings. He listened tensely as the grounds were searched, his ears straining to catch a word or two about the conclusions that had been reached.

  His luck, which had been with him since his arrival in England, held. Like every other outbuilding, the barn was checked, but the searchers cast only a casual glance over the utilitarian animals stabled there. They made an equally cursory inspection of the loft, completely missing the spot where Thomas had created a secure place for himself.

  “We’re wasting our time,” he heard one man say in disgust. “His horse is gone and there’s no sign of him. We’ve missed him.”

  Evidently, this was the opinion of the officer in charge, for the troops left soon after. Much relieved, Thomas settled down in his hiding place to snatch a few more hours of slumber. He left the abbey grounds in that dark time just before first light, hoping that any soldiers who might have been left to watch for him had long since fallen asleep.

  Again, his luck held. No one followed him and he was able to reach his next hiding place safely.

  Word of Thomas’s near capture spread quickly. Lord Strathern decided that a meeting must either be held or the idea of one abandoned completely. The original problem still remained, however. Where in tiny West Easton could a sizable number of people meet without causing comment?

  The answer proved to be quite simple: the village church.

  Though the minister was a Presbyterian, he was a moderate man who had come to believe that freedom for England could only be found with a Stuart on the throne. When Strathern approached him about using his church for the meeting site, he was more than willing—he was enthusiastic.

  And so, the planning began again. This time only the vicar, Lord Strathern, Cedric Ingram and Thomas were in on the secret. There was no need to inform the other Royalist sympathizers, because the meeting would be held on Sunday, after the service was over. If any wished to leave they would be free to do so. Otherwise, everyone who attended church that day would be invited to say his piece.

  It was not a foolproof plan, but it was the safest one Lord Strathern could think of. It was also a final effort. If this failed, Thomas would leave England with only the information he had collected so far. Strathern, and his contact within the Sealed Knot, believed it would be better for Thomas to get safely away with part of what he had been sent to discover than not to get away at all.

  *

  The note was written in a gently flowing script that could only have been penned by a woman. Philip scrutinized the missive, searching for hidden meanings behind the flowery message that Alysa Leighton would be in the village at eleven in the morning and that if he should also happen to there at that time she would be delighted to speak to him.

  There could be no doubt that this was a request for a meeting, even though it was couched in terms that did not demand, or even specify, the event. He smiled slightly. That point, if nothing else, proved to him that the note came from his lady Alysa. Though she might be forthright at times and heedless of convention, she was a Royalist lady born, with all the subtly of the breed. She wanted to see him, yes, but it was not in her nature to demand outright.

  He wondered what it was that had made her so distraught that she could not wait until he called upon her to talk to him. The contents of the letter told him nothing, but the delicate script was heavily underscored where she wrote that she would be happy to speak to him, signifying her agitation.

  Whatever was bothering her, Philip was intensely flattered that she would turn to him for assistance in solving her problem. That proved she was coming to trust and care for him. He had long since abandoned the pretense that he was courting her in order to gain entry into local Royalist circles. Alysa had moved into his heart with all the smooth subtlety he expected of Royalist ladies. Without his wanting it, she had slipped beneath his barriers and lodged herself so tightly he had no means of getting her out. Not, he’d discovered, that he wanted to.

  He arrived early in the village and paid a visit to the mercer’s shop, where he had noticed a fine lace shawl that he thought Alysa would like. After purchasing the shawl, he sauntered down the street to what was left of the smithy. There he paused for a few moments, inspecting the charred remains of the buildings. The events of that evening went through his mind and merged with his last conversation with Osborne.

  Who was the spy? Who in this small village appeared to be loyal to the king, but was truly more devoted to his own private interests?

  It could, of course, be one of the merchants, or a tenant of one of the large landowners. Most Royalist support came from the propertied classes, but after years of rule by the radical Independents and the army, many of those who had originally supported the parliamentary side during the civil wars would have been happy to see a Stuart king on the throne of England once more.

  Philip didn’t believe that it was one of the common folk, however. He thought it more likely that the spy was a prominent person who was leading a double life, smiling at his friends while he did his best to betray them. Philip had told Osborne that he didn’t care who the spy was, but that was not precisely true. Starting the fire in the smithy was the act of a coward, just as the assassination attempt on him had been. Philip was quite certain that one man had perpetrated both acts and he wanted to know who it was. He had a debt to settle with the gentleman.

  Taking one last look at the ruins, Philip shrugged. The question of the spy’s identity could wait until another day, for now it was nearly eleven o’clock and he did not want to keep Alysa waiting. In any case, the ashes held no clues, gave him no answers to his questions. He turned away, his thoughts already of Alysa.

  She had walked to the village with only her maid for company. They met in front of the cobbler’s establishment, as she had suggested in her note, and she smiled prettily as he greeted her. In her eyes was a warm approval of what he was wearing. Philip came as close to preening as was possible for one of his temperament. He had dressed carefully for the meeting, in a burgundy-colored doublet and matching breeches. The clothes were rich without being opulent, for he did not want anyone guessing that he had not run into Alysa by accident. At the same time, he wanted to look his best for her.

  “Sir Philip! How delightful to meet you this morning,” she s
aid, brushing the hood of her black woolen cloak from her gleaming blond hair. The dimple in her cheek danced into life, and in that instant, Philip thought her the most beautiful woman alive. “Are you in the village for any particular purpose? I have come to have some boots fitted, as you can see.” As Alysa waved airily at the shop, her maid discreetly moved away. Alysa sighed.

  His eyes twinkling at the harmless game, Philip said gravely, “Though I am most pleased to see you, Mistress Leighton, I must not keep you from your appointment.” He was rewarded by a smoldering look of disapproval from her fine blue eyes that made him laugh. “Evidently, your appointment is not critical. Would you care to walk a ways with me, my lady, so that we might talk?”

  Alysa’s face brightened and the mischievous dimple appeared in her cheek. “Oh, what a splendid suggestion, Sir Philip! Of course I will walk with you.” She turned to the servant. “Mary, do tell Master Horner that I will be in directly.”

  The maid bobbed a curtsey, then hastened to do her mistress’s bidding, leaving Alysa alone with Philip. One of the townsfolk passed and smiled. Alysa greeted the woman in an open, friendly way. Evidently, she did not care that gossip about them would soon be all over the village. The thought warmed Philip.

  When they were alone together, Alysa smiled at him. “Thank you for coming, Sir Philip,” she said in a low voice. Her fingers twitched nervously at the skirt of her sapphire-blue gown where it opened to show the ice-blue petticoat beneath. “Perhaps I am being a fool, but I felt I needed to talk to you and I did not want to do it at Strathern.”

  He looked at her sharply. “No?”

  “No, I—” She hesitated. After a quick glance into his eyes, she looked down quickly. “Philip, my father has enough to worry him without having to deal with the fears of a daughter and sister.”

  Enlightenment dawned on him. “You are concerned about Thomas.”

  She nodded. Lifting her face to his, her eyes wide and vulnerable, she said, “Thomas is in such danger! He was almost caught a few nights ago at Ingram Abbey and it was only by the greatest good fortune that he escaped. I am so anxious about him!”