Love Alters Not Read Free

brief silence.
    She was appalled and said slowly, “Whatever would you have done had you faced him on the battlefield? Oh, how dreadful it all is! I am so very fond of Tio, but when I think of how cruelly you have suffered this past—”
    â€œOh, have done,” he intervened, flushing. “I came off easy compared to some. You’ll recall Aynsworth? He was with us up there y’know, and still carries a musket ball in his shoulder that they’ve tried to dig out many times without success and that properly gives him fits, I hear. If I was mauled, ’twas only because I was too clumsy to get my silly foot clear in time.”
    â€œTrue,” she agreed, “but I was about to say that—in view of your vastly overrated exploits—”
    He grinned. “Vixen!”
    â€œâ€”are you,” she went on, “in favour of the Duke of Cumberland’s methods for putting down the clans?”
    The humour fled from his thin face, and his reply was so explicit that she clapped her hands over her ears. “Perry!”
    He turned a smouldering gaze on her. “I’ll say this, Mitten, if only half what I’ve heard is truth and I’d been up there to see it—been ordered to perpetrate such—” His fists clenched. “By God, but I would be damned first! And so would my brother!”
    His voice had risen. She glanced to the door. “Have a care, love! I was sure you would feel so, but—if you do, certainly Tio must! Truly, I worry for him. He always has been so close to us, more another brother than a distant cousin. You do not suppose…” She hesitated, reluctant to put her thought into words.
    He lifted himself to one elbow and looked at her narrowly. “ Have you heard something of the maggot-wit?”
    â€œNo, but … the dragoons are beating the whole countryside, and I wondered—Perry, it is not—it could not be that—that Tio is the fugitive rebel they hunt down?”
    â€œGod forbid! And he is not, so never fret.”
    She caught her breath and half-whispered, “How do you know?”
    Peregrine lay back again. “Never you mind, my girl,” he said.
    *   *   *
    The storm, which had been drifting about all day, eased off during the evening, although it continued to rain with steady persistence. Dimity’s slumbers were restless, and she awoke, heart pounding, from a nightmare in which she wore Scots plaid and Butcher Cumberland and a whole regiment of dragoons were chasing her, brandishing bayonetted muskets, their bloodthirsty howls drawing ever closer. She sighed with relief to find herself safely in the dear, familiar room, then jumped as a great gust of wind shook the house and sent rain lashing against the windows. Her mouth felt like parchment. She reached for the pitcher, but South, the rather irascible woman who served as abigail to both herself and Aunt Jane, had neglected to fill it. Grumbling, Dimity settled down again, reluctant to ring for South, who would undoubtedly clump down the stairs so loudly she’d wake Perry. It was no use, however; her throat was a desert, and at last she turned up the wick on her bedside lamp, slid her feet into cold slippers and, shivering, tied her dressing gown about her.
    She lit a candle from the lamp, and went quietly into the hall. At once it became apparent that she need not have hesitated to ring for South. The wind was a gale, the rain hissed and rattled, and far off she heard the threatening growl of thunder. Even had the abigail complained all the way from the attic, she would scarce have been like to disturb Peregrine. But there was no point in calling her at this stage, and Dimity went downstairs, across the hall, and into the corridor beyond the dining room that led to the kitchen, and Cook’s quarters.
    Thunder rumbled as she opened the door. An unexpectedly cold gust of air blew out her candle, and she knew with