And Then Mine Enemy Read online

  Table of Contents

  Book Description

  AND THEN MINE ENEMY

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  Other Titles by Alison Stuart

  NOW MY SWORN FRIEND

  CHAPTER ONE

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  A family ripped apart in a country divided by war...

  England 1642: Hardened mercenary, Adam Coulter returns to England sickened by violence, seeking only peace, but he finds England on the brink of civil war. He has seen first-hand what that will mean for every man, woman and child and wants no part of it.

  King or Parliament? Neutrality is not an option and Adam can only be true to his conscience, not the dictates of his family.

  Having escaped a loveless marriage, Perdita Gray has found much needed sanctuary and the love of a good man, but her fragile world begins to crumble as Adam Coulter bursts into her life. This stranger brings not only the reality of war to her doorstep but reignites an old family feud, threatening everything and everyone she holds dear.

  As the war and family tensions collide around them, Adam and Perdita are torn between old loyalties and a growing attraction that must be resisted.

  AND THEN MINE ENEMY

  (Feathers in the Wind Book 1)

  A romance of the English Civil War

  Alison Stuart

  And Then Mine Enemy

  Copyright © 2016 by Alison Stuart

  This edition: Oportet Publishing 2016

  Editor: Annie Seaton

  Cover Design: Fiona Jayde

  Formatting: Anessa Books

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorised, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Digital Edition License Notes

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  Discover other titles by Alison Stuart at

  Author website: http://www.alisonstuart.com

  Dedication

  Dedicated to my wonderful writer friends in the Saturday Ladies Bridge Club, without whom my writing world would be very lonely.

  ‘I am a feather for each wind that blows.’

  - William Shakespeare, The Winter's Tale, 2.3

  Chapter 1

  England

  July 1642

  A shudder of rain slewed across the sodden countryside, sending its cold fingers cutting through Adam’s already saturated cloak. He huffed out a misty breath and straightened his aching shoulders. Not for the first time he cursed his brother for summoning him to a meeting Adam knew would inevitably end in grief and recrimination.

  The remote inn loomed out of the gloaming, and led on by the cheerful light spilling through the front windows, Adam urged his weary horse forward. The miserable beast, the mud dragging at its every step, plodded on.

  A young boy ran from the stable, a sack over his head and shoulders. Adam threw him the reins and taking a deep breath, strode into the inn. He tossed his hat and gloves to the innkeeper, his numbed fingers fumbled at the ties of his cloak.

  ‘His Lordship’s in the private parlour.’ The innkeeper scowled as he held the dripping garb at arm’s length.

  Adam pushed open the door the man indicated. The two men seated beside a cheerful fire burning in the wide hearth, rose to their feet. His half-brothers schooled their faces to a neutrality that Adam knew would not last. As they faced him across the room, a growing sense of despondency gripped him. Once more the cuckoo in the nest, always the acknowledged baseborn son but not even given the protection of his father’s name.

  Denzil Marchant, just as Adam remembered him, tall and powerful, with a mane of tawny hair like his father, and his younger brother Robin, as tall but of a slighter, elegant build, his hair more auburn and sleekly curling.

  ‘Denzil, Robin,’ Adam acknowledged them as he stepped into the room. ‘I wish I could say, well met, but I would be lying.’

  ‘Adam Coulter.’ The deliberate use of his full name jarred, as Denzil no doubt intended. ‘I would scarcely have recognised you. Hardly the darling of the court now, are you?’

  ‘I found lovelocks and pearl earrings something of a hindrance to the life of a soldier.’ Without waiting to be invited, Adam poured himself a full measure from the bottle of wine that stood on the table, hoping that they would not mark that his hand shook.

  ‘Foul weather,’ he remarked, raising his cup. ‘Is there space beside the fire for me?’

  Denzil stood aside and Adam took his place beside the fire. Water dripped on to the hearthstone and steam rose from his damp clothing.

  Adam took a mouthful of wine. It was surprisingly good for such an isolated inn.

  ‘How is your beautiful wife, Denzil?’ Even after all these years he could not hide the note of derision in his voice.

  Denzil’s already high colour deepened and his brows drew together at the mention of Louise. ‘Louise is with the queen in France.’

  So, that particular wound still bled, Adam thought.

  ‘So much has happened in the last years, Denzil. I believe I should now call you Lord Marchant. When did Father die?’

  ‘Some eighteen months past. Even on his deathbed he refused to call you his son,’ Denzil responded with narrowed eyes as he watched the barb go home.

  As intended, the cruel words cut like a sword thrust to Adam’s heart.

  ‘Why did you come back to England?’ Robin spoke for the first time, his tone light and conciliatory.

  Adam turned his attention to his youngest brother. How old would Robin be now, twenty-one, twenty-two?

  ‘Because I’m tired of fighting other people’s wars and thought I should come home and find a peaceful occupation. Instead I have returned to a country that talks of war as if it is an inevitability.’ Adam turned back to look at Denzil from over the top of his wine cup. ‘Is this why you sent for me?’

  ‘I had heard you’d returned and we have need of men like you, Coulter,’ Denzil said.

  ‘What do you mean, men like me?’ Adam set the empty wine cup down on a nearby table and turned to face the fire, casually rearranging the smouldering logs with a poker.

  ‘Hardened soldiers. Men who know what they’re doing. England is about to go to war led by a bunch of country squires whose only idea of warfare is what they have read in a book.’


  Adam glanced at him. ‘Men like you, Denzil?’

  His brother’s moustache twitched and his eyes narrowed.

  ‘Tell me what has happened to England in the six years I have been away? What have I come back to? Because it is not the country I left.’

  Denzil’s brow furrowed. ‘It is indeed a sad country where a King cannot govern without being hindered at every turn by the machinations of his so-called Parliament.’

  ‘It seems to me,’ Adam straightened. and kept his voice low and even, ‘that we have a King who believes he can rule contrary to the will of the people.’

  ‘The king’s greatest enemy is his own parliament,’ Robin said.

  ‘The king’s greatest enemy is himself.’ Adam turned his gaze on Robin.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Robin came around to stand beside Denzil.

  ‘I served the king, Robin. I know the character of the man. He has a firm and unshakable belief in what he sees as his divine right to rule. Parliament may have forced him to hand over his powers of taxation and his courts but I cannot see him ever agreeing to surrender his right to choose his own counsellors or to control his army. Nor will he agree to abolish the bishops and the Prayer Book. Isn’t that what parliament has asked of him?’

  The colour rose higher in Denzil's florid cheeks. ‘All that and more, Coulter. They are saying that the king can no longer be trusted to make his own judgments about the men best able to advise him or to control his army. They have driven him from London.’

  Adam thrust away from the fireplace and paced the room, running his hand through his hair. ‘God's death, do these people who talk of war have any idea what damage a civil war can wreak? I’ve seen civil war at first hand and I’ve no wish to see the likes of it in this country.’ He turned to face Denzil. ‘Whatever you want of me, Denzil, I’ll have no part of it. I’ve come home with enough in my purse for a small estate and I intend to turn my hand to the till, not the sword.’

  Denzil snorted. ‘You’ll be bored of that within a month, or you’re not the man I remember. Coulter.’ His tone softened, almost wheedling. ‘Let’s put the past behind us. You were young. I can forgive you your indiscretion.’

  Indiscretion? Was that the price of a man’s life?

  Adam’s shoulders tensed in the old, familiar way. ‘What do you want of me, Denzil?’

  ‘I’m offering you a commission in my regiment of horse.’

  Adam raised an eyebrow. ‘You have a regiment of horse?’

  Denzil raised his chin. ‘I’ve raised the militia.’

  ‘Before the king has even raised his standard? No thank you. I want no part of this accursed affair.’

  ‘Is that your final answer, Coulter?’

  ‘It is. I would be pleased to do as you ask and put the past behind us, but I cannot in all conscience join this venture at your side.’

  Denzil’s jaw tightened and Adam braced himself for an explosion. Instead his brother threw up his hands and sighed. ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I will do as I said. Continue my journey to Shropshire where I intend to inspect a property and God willing, that is where I shall stay.’

  Denzil glanced at Robin. ‘You think Shropshire far enough away to escape our troubles?’

  ‘No. I have lived through civil war, Denzil. It is insidious. It will seek out even the most remote corners of this poor, benighted country.’

  Robin cleared his throat. ‘We have been wondering about Aunt Joan.’

  This shift in the conversation took Adam by surprise. ‘Aunt Joan?’

  ‘Yes. She was recently widowed,’ Robin looked up at Denzil. ‘Denzil?’

  ‘I am now head of this family and I am naturally concerned for her welfare in the coming conflict.’

  ‘That’s very touching, but like myself Joan has hardly been your concern since her marriage.’ Adam could hear the sarcasm in his voice.

  Denzil’s jaw tightened again and he blew out a breath. ‘What Robin is trying to say is I am prepared to put her enmity with father aside and offer her the protection of her former home at Marchants, should she wish it.’

  Adam laughed. ‘Why in God’s sweet name would she want to go to Marchants? She hated the place as much as I did.’

  ‘Damn it, Coulter.’ Denzil brought a powerful fist down on the table. ‘You are trying my patience. As head of the family I believe it my place to try and heal the wounds that have divided us for too long. If you are passing Preswood, can you at least take her my message.’

  Adam paused. ‘Preswood is near Stratford from memory and it would be good to see her again. Very well, I will take her your message.’ At the door, Adam turned to face his brothers. ‘I suppose I should thank you for the olive branch Denzil, but it’s too late. We were a family divided long before this became a country divided.’ He inclined his head and walked out of the room, resisting the temptation to slam the door behind him.

  Chapter 2

  Preswood Hall, Warwickshire

  2 July 1642

  Perdita pushed the food around her plate with the knife, conscious that through the interminable meal, Simon’s gaze had not moved from her. Across from her, Elizabeth nattered about some matter of local gossip that required no more than the occasional grunt or tsk in response. As Joan’s gaze flickered from Perdita to Simon and back again, her brow creased.

  ‘Forgive me,’ Joan said. ‘Perdita? Simon? Have you quarrelled?’

  Simon’s eyes widened. ‘Quarrelled?’ He glanced at Perdita. ‘Far from it.’ He rose to his feet, his glass in hand, and looked around the table. His gaze returned to Perdita and he smiled, a smile of such sweetness and love that her heart skipped a beat. Was it too late to renege? To turn back the clock to the sweet friendship she had treasured with this man?

  ‘Joan, Elizabeth.’ Simon addressed his stepmother and sister. ‘It may come as something of a surprise, but Perdita, our dearest kinswoman, has consented to be my wife.’

  A squeal of delight ensued from Elizabeth. Joan, not given to overt displays of emotion, cast a quick scrutinising glance in Perdita’s direction and she looked away.

  ‘I’m delighted,’ Joan said and raised her glass. ‘I wish you both much happiness in the years ahead. Were your father still alive, Simon, I know he would approve.’

  Elizabeth beamed at Perdita from across the table. ‘How I have always longed for a sister.’

  Perdita knew she should say something. Her fingers twisted in the chain of her mother’s locket as she struggled to find adequate words to cover the tumult of emotions raging in her mind. Simon had resumed his seat but he still gazed at her, a huge grin on his cheerful, freckled face. He leaned across the table, grasping her left hand in his square dependable fingers, pressing it to his lips. He did not need to speak - Simon was incapable of dissembling in either word or gesture.

  Perdita pushed back her pangs of guilt. She did not deserve such adoration, not when she felt incapable of returning those feelings. When Simon had first asked, she had hesitated a long while, but he had been patient and his very patience had worn down her resistance. Finally she had given him the answer he sought, telling herself that Simon was a dear person, comfortable and dependable, and compared with the endless years of lonely widowhood that stretched ahead of her or the prospect of another forced marriage to the likes of Samuel Gray, she could certainly do much worse. Besides their kinship was distant, Her grandmother and Simon’s grandmother had been distantly related but no closer relationship existed.

  She may not have loved Simon in the romantic sense of the word, but she liked him, loved him as a friend, and perhaps friendship would be enough. Love could come later.

  She smiled and squeezed his hand.

  ‘Have you thought about when the wedding is to take place?’ Elizabeth asked.

  Simon released Perdita’s hand and straightened in his chair. ‘I confess, I’ve not given that much thought. With the present state of affairs, it may be prudent to wait until closer to Christmas.’


  ‘What do you mean?’ Elizabeth asked.

  ‘You know what I mean, Bess.’ Simon said impatiently. ‘War is coming.’

  ‘Oh, not that again.’ Bess dismissed the troubles between the king and his parliament with a wave of her hand. ‘I’m so bored with that.’

  ‘Bess,’ Simon began but the crash of a door and the sound of raised voices stopped him mid remonstrance, ‘confound it. What is that racket?’

  Ludovic, the Clifford’s steward, a large, laconic man of foreign background who had been attached to Geoffrey Clifford from long before his marriage to Joan, appeared at the door.

  ‘There is a gentleman here, who insists on an audience with Mistress Clifford,’ he said but got no further as a tall man with rough-cut dark brown hair strode into the room.

  He swept the startled company a bow. ‘Forgive my intrusion,’ he said, rising to address them.

  Joan set her glass down and rose slowly to her feet. ‘Surely not? Adam?’

  ‘Aunt Joan.’ A broad grin split his tanned face and in two strides he had crossed to her, sweeping her off her feet into an embrace.

  Bess cast her brother a quizzical glance.

  ‘Good Lord.’ Simon blasphemed, rising from his chair. ‘Adam Coulter?’

  ‘Simon Clifford.’ Adam set his aunt back on the ground and seized Simon’s hand. ‘It’s been a long time.’ He looked at Joan and frowned. ‘Your wedding, Aunt, if my memory serves me correctly?’

  ‘Yes indeed. Ten years at least.’ Joan, her face unusually flushed, recollected herself. ‘Ludovic,’ she ordered the steward. ‘Set another place at the table. This is my nephew, Adam Coulter, who has been abroad these many years. A very welcome guest in this house.’

  As Ludovic bowed and withdrew, Joan looked up at her nephew and tapped him on his chest. ‘Why did you not send word for me to expect you?’