Catherine had determined not to lift her eyes from Carver's slender form, for he moved so like a cat that he was captivating, but even her awe was drawn forth at the great, darkened room before her. The counsel lay in darkness, all of stone and with a distinct chill in the air. They moved forth, and unconsciously, she stepped closer to Marwood, who, she realized with distaste, was trembling. Her uncle the Baron stood pompously, hands behind his back, but even his eyes swept the room, landing upon the man who could only be Sir Ensor.

He sat behind a great, sprawling wooden desk, his large hands flat upon the surface. To the side and slightly behind stood a man of whom impressed her of knowledge, for he had a snakelike gleam in his eye. Catherine glanced from Carver, who had joined them to the side, to this man, and instinctively knew the relation... father and son. Although not all was clear in the face, it was the eyes... the manner of sauntering pride... and the cleverness that lurked just beneath the surface.

Her own arrival, in a dazzling array of scarlet silk, trimmed with rich golden thread, was not completely unnoticed by the Doones that lined the room, awaiting this particular meeting with interest; and she felt approving eyes sweeping down her slender form even as she moved forth. For the first time, her fingers clutched at the cloak, pulling it closer about her, as if it could somehow prevent these unsettling and watchful glances.

She would not have minded half so much, she reckoned, feeling Marwood's hand tighten around her arm, for he, too, sensed it, if only Carver's eyes were among them. Catherine was a spoiled girl - her mother had always told her as much, with distaste bubbling from every aristocratic pore. And she had always gotten what she wanted. She had men eating out of her hands in London, and to be so ignored here was an insult; especially by a untamed outlaw.

"The Baron de Whichehalse, I presume." Ensor spoke, his voice literally arising the hairs upon her neck, and she felt her fingers turn cold. "I am Ensor Doone, Lord of Doone Valley." The manner in which it was spoken demanded respect - and a response. Her uncle, who was by no means a foolish man, replied swiftly, "Yes, I am Baron de Whichehalse, and this is my son, Marwood." He hesitated, glancing at her, almost as if he were afraid to bring her attention, and then added, "And my niece, Catherine."

Ensor whispered something to the tall, gray man at his side, and Counselor beckoned Carver forward. The young man leant down slightly, not enough to fully debase himself, but just enough to hear his grandfather's harsh whisper. "What is she doing here?"

"There was nothing but to bring her," came the reply, as oily as a serpent's. "She was in the carriage and I daresay they would not leave without her."

"Yes, well, there's nothing to be done about it now," said Ensor. "What's done is done. Carver, have her taken outside with the women. The Counsel is no place for a London female. She must hear nothing."

"Yes, sir."

Marwood's hand tightened on Catherine's arm as Carver came around the side of the table. "What's going on?" he demanded, his voice for the first time issuing forth. In pushing her back, he stepped between her and the intimidating presence of Carver, whose eyes showed no emotion; only a blank, problematic stare. He had seen enough to know of Catherine's obvious attraction toward this man... her lack of resistance upon his horse, even the fact that her eyes had never left him more than an instant. And he disliked it, immensely.

"She will be all right," said Ensor with a wave of his hand. "Take her outside."

Carver need not have even touched her, for she came free of Marwood willingly and walked with him to the door. Casting a last glance back at them, and the stone building which lay in shadows, Catherine vanished out into the gloomy sunlight. Marwood jumped as the doors closed solidly behind her, almost like a prison, and turned swiftly back, biting his protests, as Ensor rose to his feet and spoke.

"As you are the new law enforcers of the area, we have quite pressing business that is of great importance to ourselves, as well as to your very existence," explained Sir Ensor.  His eyes narrowed, waiting for any possible responses from the Baron, and, perceiving no interruptions, continued, "We Doones are a peaceful people by nature, who by no decision of our own, were condemned to live in this filthy valley, cutoff from the greatness we once enjoyed..."

"I see," replied the Baron, catching on to the general direction that this meeting was taking.

"However, we are powerful here, and it would be wise of you, and to your advantage, to realize this fact and remain out of our affairs."

The Baron, becoming uneasy after a long period of Ensor's unflinching, cold-blooded stare, buckled under the pressure and replied, "Well, whatever your activities are at present, you may continue them; you will not receive any interference from the law."

"Oh I'm sure of that," said Ensor, conceitedly.  "But what we are after, at this time, is your assistance.  With your power and influence in the political arena, we are guaranteed safety, that is by your defense of our activities, from any untoward objections that may arise."

The Baron stood in silence, remotely comprehending his task in the "defense."

"We shall compensate you, of course," soothed Ensor; as Counselor stepped forward with an average-sized brown sack containing a decent sum in gold coins.

The Baron accepted them slowly, realizing what he was committing to.  "You shall have our full cooperation, Sir Ensor," he delegated.  

"I'm glad," said the Doone Lord.  "You may leave now, my men will escort you back."

"Thank you...the baron paused, thinking of what title to use in his final address...my Lord."

Ensor smiled slyly, and simply dismissed them.  Then, the Baron and Marwood turned and walked in the direction that they came; the Baron, pondering his decision to aide the lawless Doones, and Marwood, thinking of the absent Catherine, of whom they had not seen or heard since Carver last escorted her outside the main hall...

As the solid wooden door closed behind her, Catherine found herself alone, or relatively so, with Carver Doone. For the first time, he truly looked at her, a scrutinizing glance that swept her slender frame, at last coming to rest upon her flawless features, the enchanting pale eyes that had so captivated other men. It gave her the encouragement needed to speak, her voice tremulous and certain in the cool morning air. "I have never seen, sir, such a stronghold in this valley. You could hold off an entire army from that hill."

Carver seemed almost to soften, a true admirer of praise, and yet he stood several feet from her, never closing the gap. "Yes. Since our aristocratic cousins cast us from our ancestral lands, we have made this our stronghold. None have strived to test our strengths yet, my lady." The last few words were said in almost a sneer, and yet she could disentangle the slight admiration found within them.

The conversation fell, as if a ball tossed and ground into the earth, laying unnoticed among the passing of hooves. To Catherine, it was a painful moment in which she sensed that she had failed. This man was so elusive, so different from Marwood and his pressing affections, even the stupid nobility that had sought her hand with flowery words and intense glances. To win this man, even stingingly so, would be a task in of itself... and one that she would grip with both hands. And the express joy of doing it beneath Marwood's very nose made the idea bloom with even more merit. 

She followed his gaze and found with a sudden chill that he watched a child play across the muddy path. She was only a girl, perhaps eight in years, if not younger. Dark-haired and almond-eyed, she had a face that warranted attention, that promised unmatched beauty in years to come. And for the first time, Catherine was uncertain of herself, and of this strong, handsome man in black leather before her. The profile, the eyes, intent upon the child, were such to give her somehow a feeling of dread... as if everything had passed away, save the slender figure among the trees.

The door burst open behind them, and both turned swiftly, Carver's hand automatically upon the knife at his belt, for the movement had been alarming; but it was merely the Baron and Marwood. The former wore an expression of secret delight, hidden behind a veil of languidness; while the latter visibly relaxed to find Catherine awaiting them. His hand closed around her arm, and she withheld the sneer of disgust that threatened her lips.

Marwood's eyes caught those of Carver, and something passed between them. What, she did not know, only that Carver looked upon her with a renewed interest, one corner of his lips lifting in an almost sinister smile. He had sensed opposition, sensed the brooding temper of the wealthy young baron's son, of the furious jealousy that waged war from deep within the dark almond eyes. A challenge, and one, he had to admit, that would make their dealings with the baron's family all the more interesting. Catherine was hardly a burnished prize, but a glittering jewel, and although his brooding patience lingered upon Lorna, perhaps the time had come to give the young aristocrat something to truly worry about.

"Come, Catherine," said Marwood coldly, his eyes never leaving Carver's exquisite features. And not knowing why, she went.  

Lorna had noticed the two noble-looking men and one beautiful young woman enter into the great hall, and had seen the rather pretty lady come out shortly after, escorted by Carver. She beheld the gorgeous scarlet and gold dress worn by Catherine, wishing that she could own such beautiful apparel. Lorna could also view how the girl gazed at Carver with huge, saucerlike eyes...

"Did she want Carver's notice?" pondered Lorna, fairly perplexed, as she had always received it, whether she desired it, or not. They were speaking a little now; and as she could not hear their words due their distance from her, she continued her imaginary play revolving around a great lady being rescued from a tower by a terribly handsome knight...

The ominous clouds that had blanketed the sky when the snobbish aristocrats exited the great hall, were beginning to sink into darker shades of grey. A distant rumble of thunder was audible, but unnoticed by the inhabitants of the Doone Valley. Carver, leaning against one of the sturdy beams that supported the great hall, glared at the somewhat noble statures, as they trod down the steps towards several ready horses.

He would not accompany them back to their mansion in Porlock, his fellow Doones would undoubtedly be able to handle a simple return trip. His scrutinizing gaze closely supervised the entire party as they left, including a pontifical Baron, a terribly disappointed Catherine and an extremely possessive and highhanded Marwood. He caught a wistful glance from Catherine, returning it only with his icy stare. She was attractive, but then again, so was the myriad of available options.

As the aristocratic family rode off through the valley, Carver quickly switched his stare to pan the area where he had seen the young girl playing only a short while before. She had vanished to escape, no doubt, to that waterfall. He still had her image in his mind however, as he pondered the refreshed vision of her manner and beauty, both of which were growing more and more exquisite every day.

Suddenly, he was interrupted by "Carver, Ensor wishes to see you." Turning, his eyes fell upon Charlie, a cousin and fellow conspirator. The man was like a dog, eager to please, panting at Carver's heels, praying that somehow, in pleasing the future Lord of the Doones, he would gain recognition and admiration. He debated on whether or not to go in, but in as much as he had had quite enough of his grandfather for today, he reluctantly strode into the cold darkness.

"The Baron, wisely," said Counselor in his even tone, the smugness showing only through his eyes, "has decided to side with us in our ruling of Porlock. In exchange, he will receive periodical payment. However, to give him due time to settle in, Carver..."

"It is suggested," finished Ensor almost coldly, "that you stop the raids on Porlock. He must gain the trust of the people, and to do that, there must be peace until his charge, the Lady Catherine, returns to London."

If Ensor anticipated any reaction from Carver, he was solely disappointed. The dark brows merely raised, the brooding pale eyes never wavering, and a moment later he was dismissed. Charlie followed his elder cousin, the dark eyes sparkling with anticipation. "She was a beauty, don't you think, Carver?"

"You'll notice how that beastly London brat prowled over her like a wolf," came the jaunty reply. "She's handsome enough, I suppose... but her beauty will be nothing in comparison to Lorna's." Taking up a piece of grass, Carver slit it impatiently with his fingernail, apparently oblivious to Charlie's delight in the thought of Lady Catherine and her playful red lips.

"Why not think of another woman for a chance, Carver? You will have Lorna, and we shall all envy you, but why not have a bit of fun now? Wouldn't it be at least tempting to chance that beastly baron's son out of his intended? And in any case, since we can't raid for at least three weeks, what else is there to do?"

A half smile crept across Carver's face as he tossed aside the broken stem, glanced up into the darkening clouds, and strode away into the darkness.

It was beginning to rain when at last the carriage drew up before the manor in Porlock, and Lady Catherine's cloak hood was risen to properly protect the tower of curls that spilled over her shoulders, surrounding a face that had been set with an almost angry pout since their leaving of the Doone Valley. The Baron leapt out in relief, shouting commands to the servants, who ran about at his bidding like frightened mice, and she stormed into the house, throwing back the hood and exclaiming, "This is the most beastly place!"

Marwood, who hadn't let her out of his eye since the Counsel, snatched hold of her arm, bringing her sharply around to face him. "I saw what you were doing," he said coldly, his eyes blazing unusually with passionate jealousy. "You were making eyes at that... at that bloody Doone!"

"Why Marwood," she replied cruelly, "I believe you're jealous."

Drawing her to him sharply, for there was no chance of being invaded in the darkened corridor by the servants or even his protective father, Catherine let out a sharp gasp to find anger expressed unusually well across his normally languid, even foppish, features. "Just remember, Catherine," he hissed. "You belong to me!"

"I belong to no one, and no man in general," she retorted sharply, pulling back with uncanny strength. "And you'll do well to remember that. I have not yet accepted your proposal, Marwood. As far as I'm concerned, you're merely a jealous little boy watching a famed marionette, reaching for the strings, but never quite grasping them. I am here in Porlock merely to please my father. Soon I will go home, where there are plenty of ambitious young aristocrats longing for me to give them a courteous glance. So if you want me, my cousin, you must play the game more coyly than that."

And turning, sweeping up the silken skirts, Catherine gave him one last cruel, almost patronizing glance, and vanished up the stairs, leaving Marwood alone in the darkened corridor.

Part X