Had We Never Loved (19 page)

“No,” she gasped, struggling. “No! Let me be!”

He scarcely heard her. She had kissed him back. She wanted to be loved just as much as he yearned to love her. He slid the blouse aside and began to kiss the warm softness of her shoulder. “I won't hurt you, my beautiful. Don't be frightened.”

“I ain't frightened,” she lied, sobbing, and straining to push him away. “'Cause I've got the word of—a gentleman!”

That home truth seemed muffled and distant in Glendenning's ears. She was afraid, that's all it was. But, he wanted her. Oh, how he wanted her! And he would take care of her, always. It wasn't as though he meant to abandon her once she had given herself to him. He tightened his arm, his hungry mouth seeking lower.

Amy screamed shrilly, “Don't! Tio—please,
don't!
Is that—is that all yer honour's worth?”

It was as if a sword had slashed through the mists to reveal stark reality. His word of honour … He had given his word of honour to protect her. He'd sworn that she would be safe in his care. Good God! Had he lost his mind? He was a gentleman, and he was violating the Code that he had been taught to revere since childhood. The Code of Honour, unchanging, unassailable, by which a man was judged, and which decreed that above all else, the word of a gentleman must be inviolate. How terrified she looked. Horrified, and with a wrenching effort, he flung her from him and stumbled away, to stand with head down, fists clenched at his sides.

Trembling, Amy watched him, and saw that he also was shaking. She crept up behind him and, very softly, one fingertip touched the cuff of his sleeve.

Unaware of that gesture, despising himself for what he almost had done, and how his mind had sought to justify such a betrayal, he realized that she was saying something, her voice full of sadness.

“… head has broke off, and Ab made it for me. If you hadn't got me so cross, I wouldn't of kicked the crate.”

Breathing hard, he fought for self-control. She was offering him an escape from a contretemps a gentleman of honour should not have allowed to happen. He had never forced a woman in his life. Especially a girl so far beneath his own station in life, and to whom he owed so much. He could well imagine what Papa would have to say of such disgraceful conduct. Turning, he found that she was kneeling again, holding two pieces of a broken figurine. She looked so small and so daintily vulnerable. She had trusted him, and he, sworn to protect her, had almost—He muttered shamefacedly, “Amy, I do not know—”

“Only look,” she interrupted, holding the pieces up for his inspection. “It's ruined.”

He held her eyes levelly. “I don't deserve that you should be so forgiving. I behaved despicably.”

“I know,” she agreed. “But—you're just a man, ain't ye. Even if you is—Quality.”

He flushed scarlet. “I can only beg your forgiveness.”

She said nothing, and for a long moment he stood with head downbent, mute and wretched.

Amy gave a little tug at his coat. “You stopped,” she pointed out kindly. “There's lots as wouldn't have. Now look at my poor deer. It was so pretty.”

Pulling himself together, he raised his eyes to the pieces she held, and was not surprised that she should be so distressed. The small deer had been most beautifully carven from white marble. The head, itself a work of art, had broken off. “Good heavens!” he muttered, taking the sections from her. “Is there no end to your uncle's talent?”

“He does all sorts of things, my Old Ab. He can mend broke pots, and statues and arty things like this. He was making a swan for a lady's garden when you first came, but I told him to stop, 'cause I thought the noise was troubling you.”

He remembered the sounds that had puzzled him that first day, and that he'd thought to be the chiming of a little bell. Intrigued, he asked, “But how can he afford to make you such a gift? Surely, this type of marble must be—Now do not fly into the boughs! I am not accusing him of—prigging!”

To hear that word on his lips drew a tremulous laugh from her. “It was left over,” she explained. “Sometimes rich folk let him keep whatever he don't use for their things. And he gets bits from jewellers now and then, when they've got something that needs mending. I think it's 'cause they don't know how to fix it theirselves—” She threw up a hand imperiously. “Don't say it!
Them
selves.” She was relieved to see his faint grin, and went on: “Ab says sometimes their customers is in a hurry and they can't get things done quick enough to please 'em, so they call on him.”

Glendenning turned the little deer in his hands. Pleased by his obvious admiration, Amy asked, “Would you like to see Ab's drawings? He likes to sketch out what he's working on. I'll bring them in the kitchen, and you can look at them while I tidy up.”

He was only too willing to do whatever she suggested, so he sat and looked through Absalom's sketches, and the more he saw, the more impressed he became. The man was a master; an extraordinarily talented craftsman. “Small wonder the jewellers hire him,” he said. “But they take advantage of the poor fellow. With skills such as these, he should at least be able to afford a better way of life.”

Amy put the left-over pork in a stone bowl and covered it tightly. “You think they're good, then?”

“Good! They're absolutely—”

“Here! What you a'doing of?” demanded Absalom, stamping in at the door, the picture of belligerence.

Glendenning scarcely heard him. He was staring, frozen with astonishment, at the sketch of a squat, primitive figure. It was shaped rather like a small gravestone, but with the outline of a face on the front so that the figure seemed all head, with a suggestion of stubby legs beneath. The accompanying measurements indicated a height of three inches, and scattered about the grotesque “face” were five small circles with at the side a notation: rubies here.

“My dear God!” he whispered.

“Oh! What is it?” cried Amy, alarmed by his expression. “Whatever's the matter now?”

He could not at once answer her, and continued to stare in disbelief at the sketch he held. The figure portrayed was of one of the icons carried, apparently for identification, by members of the secret society that he and a small group of friends believed threatened England. The powerful, fanatical, and deadly band they had named the League of Jewelled Men.

*   *   *

The heat of the afternoon was alleviated to an extent by a bustling wind; a pranksome wind, which set Gwendolyn Rossiter's many lace-trimmed petticoats fluttering, and snatched at the pages of her book. Wandering across the lawns toward the summer-house, with Apollo panting at his heels, August Falcon paused to watch with a grin as Gwendolyn attempted to subdue petticoats and pages. Absorbed, she did not notice him, and would have been astounded had she known what was in his mind.

She was an annoyance in his life. A prickly pest whose constant presence here irked him. But there could be no doubt that Katrina missed her dearest friend, Naomi Lutonville—now Mrs. Gideon Rossiter—and that Rossiter's crippled sister had done much to fill the void. Falcon loved only two people in the world, one of whom was Katrina, and he could not thoroughly dislike anyone who made her happy. Gwendolyn Rossiter, with her quick wit, her merry sense of humour, her outspoken candour, delighted, and was delighted by, Katrina.

Regrettably, Miss Rossiter had also embarked upon a crusade to reform one August Nikolai K. Falcon, and lost no opportunity to pinch at him, so that, however he strove to control it, he invariably lost his temper with her. He had no least desire to be reformed. He was a confirmed cynic, a loner, an arrogant, autocratic, bad-tempered care-for-nobody. And he was also selfish and rude. All of which she had informed him, and with which he, for the most part, had no quarrel. But not content with pointing out his faults, she wanted to make the sinner into a saint, which was irritating and a bore. The simplest way to deal with the vixen was to avoid her like the plague, yet somehow the very sight of her was a challenge, drawing him inexorably into their next battle of wits.

Just at the moment she presented a rather charming picture, with the sunlight gleaming on her unpowdered light brown ringlets, and the great blue skirts billowing about her. The ankle that the wind obligingly revealed was neat and trim. Should a gentleman of limited intellect chance to come upon her seated thus, he might judge her to be quite pretty.

Falcon's musings were interrupted as a heartier gust made off with the wide-brimmed hat that had been loosely tied to hang behind Gwendolyn's shoulders, and she dropped the book so as to catch the hat.

“Maledictions, and confound you, wind,” she exclaimed. “Now you've made me lose my place!”

Amused, Falcon retrieved the book, and riffled idly through the first few pages.

“I might have guessed,” she moaned. “You
would
come just in time to hear me swear!”

Looking at her, his face darkened. “And I might have guessed you would bring such rubbishing stuff here so as to taunt me again.”

“
Au contraire,
kind sir. If it is rubbishing stuff, 'tis your own, for I borrowed it from your book room. As for taunting you—I'll admit that, initially perhaps, I had hoped to awaken your interest in—”

“The other side of my—heritage?”

“Just so. Did you know that when you sneer like that, your lip curls up?”

“But how fascinating.”

“Oh, no. And there it goes again. However, what I started to say was that I am myself becoming most interested in—you will forgive if I say the word?—China. 'Tis surprising that I knew so little about such a very big country. This gentleman”—she reached out to reclaim the thin volume—“was a missionary in Peking, and he writes that one of their first emperors discovered how to awaken a flame when he watched a bird make sparks as it pecked at—”

“At his foolish head? 'Tis scarce to be wondered at. But an you are not come to tease me, ma'am, nor to admire my curling lip, why are you here? Faith, but one might think you mean to move in with us.”

“Scarce surprising, Mr. Falcon,” said she, refusing to be flustered by such rudeness, “when your papa and your dear sister are so very kind to me.”

“Whereas I am
un
kind.” He strolled to sit on the steps and stretch out his long legs with the fluid grace that characterized all his movements. “Is that what I am to deduce from your saintly rejoinder?”

She considered, then said thoughtfully, “You are kind to your sister. And—sometimes—to your papa.” He gave a smothered and contemptuous grunt. “Out of all the world,” she appended.

“'Tis a sad and sorry world, Miss Rossiter.”

“To the contrary, the world is beautiful, sir. Mankind brings the sadness and sorrow.”

He glanced at the cane lying beside her. “And what of womankind? You have not been gently dealt with. Do you really find the world beautiful?”

“Exceeding beautiful. Only look around you.”

“Thank you—no. You would rave of the glories of Nature. I would point out its cruelty, and in striving to open your eyes to plain truth, would merely waste my breath. I shall deny you the opportunity to counter common sense with puerile platitudes. Sad to say, you've spent so much time with Jamie Morris you have memorized some of his idiocies.”

“Since the poor young man has so little time left, 'tis as well that somebody should benefit from his wisdom.”

“Wisdom! 'Fore heaven, ma'am, he must be a skilled necromancer to have so thoroughly gulled you. The man is a veritable blockhead! And what do you mean by saying he has little time left? Are we to be blessed by his departure at last? Is he called back to active service?”

“Not to my knowledge. But I had understood 'tis your mission in life to fight him.”

“Oh. Yes. Well, as you know, we have had a—er, quarrel. For too long!”

“And for a silly quarrel you mean to kill him.” She clicked her tongue condemningly.

His shoulders lifted in a bored shrug. “You should be grateful that I am willing to remove such a blot from your beautiful world.”

That angered her, and she said sharply, “I think my beautiful world would miss him very much. I know
I
would.”

“Such admirable loyalty.” He slanted one of his mocking glances at her. “And only because he is your brother's friend. Or—can it be that you nourish a
tendre
for the bumpkin?”

Gwendolyn took up her hat, and with no little difficulty restrained the impulse to fling it in his face. “Alas, but I am unmasked,” she said lightly. “Before I die of unrequited love, I shall go and cheer up my rival.”

He scowled. “An you refer to my sister, your mission of mercy is unwarranted. She is not despondent.”

“No. But she is often lonely.”

“Nonsense. She has her family, and is widely admired.”

“And isolated.”

He began to inspect Apollo's paw for fleas. “Say protected, rather.”

“Certainly not. You do not protect. You suffocate. And 'tis a misplaced persecution because—”

“Persecution? Now, damme if—”

“—because your papa is the head of— There's one! There's one!” She gave a squeal of excitement as Falcon caught the parasite and despatched it.

He stifled a grin. “'Tis past time that you should appreciate my accomplishments. The next honours to you, ma'am. And as for my papa—he has other interests to command his time.”

“I know,” she agreed outrageously, peering without great enthusiasm at Apollo's neck. “I've—Ugh! It hopped! I've seen some of his—er, interests.”

Shocked, he exclaimed, “If ever I heard a lady make such a vulgar remark! And you cannot kill the brutes by looking them to death, Miss Rossiter. The way to do it is—” Irritated by this lapse, he said austerely, “I think my sire's behaviour is none of your affair.”