Authors: Anne Stuart
“Certainly, my good man,” Valerian said from behind his sodden veil. “But first my young friend and I shall need private rooms to mend our toilettes.”
“I’m most sorry to tell you, my lady, that I can’t oblige. We have only two bedrooms, and one of them is already bespoke.”
“Only two bedrooms in an inn this size? Don’t be absurd!” Valerian protested.
“We’ve had a fire, my lady,” the man said miserably, wringing his hands. “We haven’t yet finished the repairs.”
“Show us your room,” Sophie said, smiling sweetly. “I’m certain it will be just fine.”
“Indeed, ma’am, it’s a very comfortable bed.”
Valerian controlled himself with an effort. “We weren’t planning to spend the night, my good man, but just to wait out the worst of the storm.”
“Begging your pardon, my lady, but the road’s already flooded between here and Hampton Regis. Even if the rain were to stop right now, the water wouldn’t go down till after midnight.”
“What an adventure!” Sophie cried, obviously pleased. “Don’t worry, Val. Your husband has complete faith in your self-reliance, and so does my mother. I’m certain they won’t worry unduly.”
Valerian thought of his brother’s strictures, and made an unseen grimace. “Mr. Ramsey is more strict than would first appear,” he said.
“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it. Unless there’s another road to Hampton Regis?” She turned her bright, inquisitive eyes to the unhappy landlord.
“There’s only one, miss, and it lies even lower than the main road. It floods even more often. I’d advise against trying it.”
“Well,” said Val in what he hoped was a matter-of-fact voice, “it appears we’re stranded, at least for the night. I don’t suppose you could come up with dry clothes, my good man?”
“For the young miss, I’m certain we could devise something,” he said. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but I doubt we’d have anything to fit you.” He looked up at Valerian with awe. “Most of the women around here are built along smaller … er, that is to say …”
There was nothing to do but take it with a sense of humor. Sophie was eyeing him warily, trying to gauge his expression behind the damp veiling. “I know, I know,” he said lazily. “I’m gargantuan. I’ll just have to sit by the fire and hope I dry off.”
“My wife has an extra night rail she could lend you. She’s not so tall, but she’s good and stout, and I imagine it’ll fit,” the man said anxiously.
Wearing the clothes of a stout landlady didn’t particularly appeal to Valerian, but there wasn’t much he could say. “That would be very generous of your wife.”
“In the meantime, let me show you to your room, and I’ll see about some hot tea.”
Valerian was in a very bad mood indeed. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I might prefer a hot rum punch.”
Such a request from a lady was unusual, but the innkeeper did his best not to blanch. “Hot rum punch? I could see to that. I was going to make one for our gentleman guest, and I could brew you up some as well. Something a bit weaker.”
“By no means. I want it strong and hot and spicy,” Valerian said determinedly.
“So would I,” Sophie piped up. “Forget about the tea.”
“Rum punch?” the landlord echoed, horrified. “For both of you ladies?”
Valerian took Sophie’s hand in his. “For both of us ladies,” he said. And his voice was dangerously low.
The bedroom under the eaves was small, cozy, and smelled faintly of wet smoke. The bed was tiny, and if anyone thought Valerian would be able to share it with Sophie and not touch her, that person was out of his mind.
Val had a scant few minutes alone as Sophie sought the privacy of the convenience. Time enough to strip off his sodden hat and try to repair his appearance. He ran a worried hand over his strong jaw, but he’d shaved very closely that morning, and the faint stubble was almost indiscernible. At some point he’d have to closet himself and shave again, but he didn’t dare attempt it at the moment. Sophie was innocent, but she wasn’t stupid, and he could think of no excuse for the dashing Mrs. Ramsey to be shaving.
He had to make do with whisking powder over his face. The black eye was beginning to show through the makeup, and he accepted it reluctantly. At least it might distract her attention from his faintly darkening chin.
He had no skill at all with his hair, and no choice but
to tie it behind his neck with a riband. The effect was too masculine, but fate had taken a hand, and he could only work with what he had. At least he always kept his razor and powder with him, ready for disaster.
When Sophie reentered the room she looked flushed and breathless. She glanced at him shyly as he tried to shake some of the water from his sodden skirts. “You know,” she suggested, “you could probably borrow some of the landlord’s clothes until yours dry. I know the suggestion is quite shocking, but you must be wretchedly uncomfortable.”
He almost choked. “I don’t think it would be quite the thing for me to dress up as a man,” he said gravely.
“No, I suppose you’re right.” She had a pale blue dress and a froth of white lace over her arm, and she dropped the clothes on the bed before presenting her narrow, delicious back to him. “Would you unfasten my dress?”
For a moment he didn’t move, casting his eyes heavenward in a silent prayer. She glanced over her shoulder at him, and without further hesitation he moved behind her, his usually deft hands clumsy as they began to unfasten the row of tiny buttons.
He’d undressed a great many females in his life. Ladies of fashion, dairymaids, farmers’ daughters, and governesses. They’d all been more than willing, and he’d grown quite conversant with the intricacies of women’s clothing. Even in the heat of advanced desire, he’d never had so much difficulty with the fastenings.
“Are you all right, Valerie?” Sophie asked when the last button finally parted and the damp dress slid down over her shoulders.
“Splendid,” he growled, then coughed to cover the masculine
note in his voice. He moved away, turning his back to her, uncertain if he could stand to watch.
“How are your hands?”
He glanced down at them. They were one of the most revealing things about him. They were large, well shaped, used to hard work, and undoubtedly masculine. “Fine,” he said, wishing women’s dresses came with pockets so that he could hide them.
“Your gloves ripped again, didn’t they? I just wanted to make sure you weren’t hurt …” The blasted girl came around in front of him and caught his hands in hers. She’d dispensed with her pink dress, and she was wearing her chemise and petticoats. He could see far too much of the swell of her small, perfect breasts, he could see the shape of her legs beneath the damp petticoats, and he almost groaned.
He tried to yank his hands away, but her grip was surprisingly strong. “You go through more gloves than any female I know,” she said humorously, running her soft fingers over the calluses on his palm. Her touch was deft, innocently erotic, and he was immediately hard beneath his concealing clothes. A frown creased her brow. “You must have worked hard in your life,” she said.
It was now or never. He needed to warn her, needed to drive her away, and the only thing he could think of was more lies. “I’m afraid I have,” he said, letting his large hand rest in hers, trying not to stare down her cleavage, not to drink in the lavender scent of her perfume. “I’m afraid I’ve been living under faintly false pretenses.”
“You’ve been lying to me?” Her voice was still and wary, but, she didn’t release his hand. It was a warning.
“No,” he said, lying once more. “I just haven’t made my
antecedents clear. I’m not quite as wellborn as one would think. I … I married above me. By quite a bit.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” she said soothingly.
“I used to work as a seamstress,” he said desperately, hoping to give her a disgust of him.
“I’m sure you were very industrious.”
“And I worked on a farm,” he added, this time truthfully.
“You’re so lucky,” she said soulfully. “And your hands show honest toil. You shouldn’t be ashamed of them.” And to his utter horror she leaned forward and put her lips against his palm.
And then she released him, backing away, suddenly startled. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was foolish of me.” And she turned her back to him, her beautiful, narrow back, and reached for the clothing on the bed.
He couldn’t stay in that room a moment longer, with the feel of her mouth still on his hand, the scent of her perfume on the air, the sight of her creamy skin dazzling his eyes. He practically raced toward the door. “I’ll meet you in the parlor,” he said in a strangled voice.
She turned, and through the dampness of the thin white material he could see the faint darkness of her nipples, puckered against the cold, wet material. “I might need help dressing,” she protested.
Not from me, my girl. One more moment alone with you and you won’t have any need for clothing, he thought grimly. “I’ll send the maid,” he said, escaping.
The landlord met him at the bottom of the stairs, a troubled expression on his cherubic face that Val suspected was habitual. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but there’s a bit of a problem. We’ve only one private parlor, and that’s already been bespoke by the gentleman in the other room. I
thought it wouldn’t be proper asking him to share, seeing as how you two ladies are traveling without male escort, so to speak, so I thought you might condescend to use the taproom. No one’s going to come in on a night like this one, and if they do, we’ll just send them on their way. You and the young lady will have your privacy, I promise you, and no interference from the gentleman.”
“The taproom will be fine,” Val said, sailing past him with what he hoped was a certain majesty. He paused, looking back. “Are you certain none of the other bedrooms are available? I don’t mind the smell of smoke.”
“Certain, my lady. Especially in this weather. We’re fixing the roof, but as it is …” He shrugged. “Was there some particular problem, my lady? Most women prefer to share a bed. Gives ‘em a bit of company, and while my inn is in every way respectable, another woman would give you some added protection, so to speak.”
There was no way Valerian could argue it further. He knew perfectly well that his insistence on a private bedroom was peculiar. Indeed, it would be very odd if he didn’t share Sophie’s bed to give her companionship and countenance. He was just horribly afraid that wasn’t all he’d end up giving her.
“The room will be fine,” he said wearily. “I was only thinking of the young lady’s comfort. I am a bit large for that particular bed.”
The poor landlord could say nothing. To agree would be to insult his guest; to disagree would be even worse. “Perhaps the gentleman might be willing to exchange rooms. His bed is larger and—”
“Heavens, no!” Val said with a perfect trill of laughter he’d perfected several weeks ago, having learned it from
Neville Pinworth. “That would be quite indecent, I assure you. I wouldn’t think of asking him to trade. My niece and I will make do. Perhaps if there’s a pallet, an extra mattress …?”
The landlord shook his head once more. “Burned, my lady.”
Val cursed inwardly. I tried, Lord, I tried, he said silently. “Then I suppose we’ll simply have to make do,” he said in a dulcet voice. “How is our rum punch coming?”
“I’ve made some for the gentleman, and I was just about to brew up a fresh batch for you. Something a bit more suited to the ladies.”
Sophie had appeared on the stairway, decently clothed in a pale blue dress that had obviously been the height of fashion twenty years ago. The neckline was low, the waist a more natural one, and the dress clung to her curves like a second skin. Valerian didn’t know but that it was even more arousing than her skin.
“We want strong punch,” she said, descending the stairs. “Mrs. Ramsey and I intend to enjoy our night of freedom, don’t we?”
Valerian let his eyes drift over her white shoulders, the pale slope of her breast. “Immensely,” he said, consigning his misery to the devil. He would take tonight, take whatever he dared to enjoy, and tomorrow he would willingly pay the price.
The landlord let out a resigned sigh. “Very well,” he said. “I’ve already had the table laid for you two ladies. If you go on into the taproom, I’ll bring you some rum punch. But it’s very strong, I warn you.”
“We’re very strong ladies, aren’t we, Val?” Sophie said mischievously, tucking her arm through Val’s.
“We do our best,” he said, savoring the feel, the scent, of her.
“Very well,” the man said again. “And I’ll tell the gentleman not to intrude on the taproom. Not that he would. Likes his privacy, I can tell, and he’s not a man who’d offer a lady an insult.”
“Let us sincerely hope not,” Val drawled.
“No, I could tell the moment I saw him,” the innkeeper said firmly. “Mr. Lemur would never harm a lady.”
Phelan Romney was in an exceedingly bad mood. Not only had Valerian failed to return that evening, he’d disappeared with the de Quinceys’ virginal daughter, Sophie. While the redoubtable Mrs. de Quincey had no lack of faith in Val’s ability to watch over her little hatchling, Phelan was feeling far from sanguine.
He knew his brother very well, knew that despite his reckless, lighthearted attitude, his masquerade was slowly driving him crazy.
And he knew his brother was in love. An odd admission for a man like Phelan, a man who didn’t believe in love, but he couldn’t ignore the fact. Valerian loved women, and treated them all with the same amount of tenderness and care. But one had only to see his face when he said Sophie’s name to know the man was completely moonstruck.
And Phelan, who longed to ride to his younger brother’s rescue and right any wrongs, much as he had when they were younger, was helpless. At the worst, Valerian was a fugitive from justice who had lied to his beloved, an exile
from his native county with the ugly charge of patricide hanging over his head.
At best, he was a landless bastard, he who loved the land so much, whose existence had driven a well-bred lady to butcher her own husband.
Either way, it wasn’t a pretty notion.
And he could hardly blame Valerian for following his reckless desires when he himself wouldn’t even listen to his own advice. He’d tried, of course, refusing to admit he didn’t have full control of his urges.
He’d tried to distract himself with useless errands. He’d decided to explore, and he’d ridden in search of Hannigan’s mysterious family, only to find the tiny village of Hampton Parva peopled solely with Hannigans and no one else. He’d been welcomed, warily, and not a single one of his questions had been answered. Each one was directed back to Hannigan himself, and when Phelan rode back home to discover Valerian missing in the sudden storm, his mood was none too pretty.
He should have taken a page from Valerian’s book and retired to his bedroom with a couple of bottles of wine and his own dark thoughts. He should have kept as far away from Juliette MacGowan Lemur as he could. At least until she was ready to tell him the truth.
But he wasn’t sure that he could. He was a man who prided himself on his self-control, on his imperviousness to the vagaries of most human weaknesses. But when all was said and done, he was proving to have as little willpower as his impetuous younger brother. And, trapped alone in a storm-swept house on a desolate strip of land, he had all he could do to keep from taking a taste of danger. Just a sip, mind you. Of Juliette’s soft, defiant mouth.
“Master wants you,” Hannigan announced tersely, poking his head inside the kitchen.
Dulcie looked up from the stove. “I’ll be right there,” she said, putting down her ladle.
“Not you, woman. The lass there.”
Juliette lifted her head, trying to ignore the little shiver of alarm that swept through her. It had been a relatively peaceful, almost indolent day, spent in the kitchens helping Dulcie. She’d expected it to end the same way, without having to endure the unsettling presence of the master of the house.
She rose, reaching for her jacket. “No need for that, lass,” Hannigan said. “He wants you to serve dinner. You’ll do fine as you are.”
“Serve him dinner?” Dulcie echoed, scandalized. “What does he think she is? I’ve a notion to teach him his manners.”
“He thinks she’s a servant,” Hannigan said sternly. “Which, at this moment, she is. Until she tells him otherwise. Come along with you, lass.”
Juliette hesitated. “Who else is there?”
Hannigan’s mouth curved in a wry smile. “You’ll need to learn that such questions are none of a good servant’s business,” he said. “As a matter of fact, the master dines alone tonight.”
“Then why does he need someone to serve him?” she countered.
“Ask him yourself, if you dare,” Hannigan suggested.
It was probably just another salvo in the battle waging between them. She refused to let it reach her. She would serve his dinner with calm efficiency. And she’d resist the impulse to fling the plate at his head.
The formal dining room at Sutter’s Head was small, elegant, and candlelit. Phelan sat at one end of the table, holding a glass of wine in one long-fingered, graceful hand, and his dark hair was rumpled over his high forehead. He was wearing dark breeches and a white shirt open at the neck, informal wear for a private evening at home. She made her way carefully down the length of the room, bearing the tray in her hands, and she was acutely aware of his eyes on her, watching her every movement.
She worked with calm competence, serving the delicious dinner Dulcie had made, her movements deft and precise as she opened the second bottle of wine, shook out the heavy linen napkin and draped it in his lap, brushed an imaginary crumb off the table.
“Was there anything else, sir?” she asked in a deferential tone that was only faintly mocking.
He didn’t bother to glance up at her, concentrating instead on the dinner. “Sit down,” he said shortly.
“I’d rather return to the kitchen, sir.”
“Sit down.”
Juliette sat. He began to eat, slowly, with a complete lack of self-consciousness that in another time Juliette might have found admirable. She hated having people watch her when she ate—if there were servants in the room, she usually dismissed them. She stared stonily ahead, only allowing herself an occasional glance in his direction, waiting for him to speak to her. He ate as he did everything, with a kind of offhand, negligent grace.
“I’m trying to decide what to do with you,” he said, and it took her a moment to realize he’d even spoken.
“You don’t need to do a thing with me. You can return my earbobs and let me leave. Surely that would be the prudent course.”
“I have little interest in prudence.” He leaned back in his chair and looked at her, and she realized he’d been drinking more heavily than usual. Not enough so that it really showed, just enough to put a dangerous glitter in his eyes.
A moment or two passed before she realized he had snapped his fingers in her direction. “Yes, sir?”
“You may refill my wine.”
The wine bottle was next to his hand. Gritting her teeth, she rose from her seat, reaching for the bottle. In her temper she spilled a drop, and Phelan shook his head in disapproval. “You need experience, young Julian, if you’re to continue as a servant,” he murmured. “Perhaps I’ll have you serve all my meals. After all, if you intend to make a career of this, you’d best learn a certain amount of proficiency. It’s the least I can do to help you.”
“I’m very proficient,” she said between her teeth.
“And you need to remember not to talk back to your betters,” he drawled, obviously enjoying himself.
“I’ll endeavor to do so, sir,” she said. “If ever I’m in the presence of one.” She started to move away, but his hand shot out and caught her wrist.
“You really have no idea how very dangerous your behavior is, do you?” His voice was silken.
She looked down at him, at the hand on her wrist. She was tanned from her years beneath the blazing tropical sun, but his skin was just as burnished. Sprawled there in his loose white shirt, he looked like no English gentleman. He looked like a pirate, a marauder, a very threatening man indeed. So why did she persist in thinking he could save her from Lemur?
“Why is it dangerous?” she asked, her voice deceptively steady. Even though he held her, there was no pain in her wrist. Instead, his thumb was stroking the skin, absently.
She wondered what would happen if she tried to pull away. She wondered why she wasn’t interested in trying.
“Because I’m a man,” he said. “I’ve been celibate for longer than I’ve ever been since I turned sixteen, and I’m getting to the point where anything would attract me. Including a child who can’t decide if she’s a boy or a girl.”
She did jerk her hand away then, and he let her go, surveying her out of assessing eyes. “I’m going to bed,” she said, stalking toward the door.
“You’re my servant.” His voice followed her, lightly mocking. “At least for the time being. And I haven’t dismissed you.”
“Go to hell,” she said succinctly. And slammed the door behind her. And the sound of his laughter echoed down the hall after her.
She went straight to her room, locking the door behind her. It was hot and stifling inside, but the rain was coming down so heavily she didn’t dare open the window. She sat there, alone in the darkness, and wondered what in God’s name was going to become of her.
She must have slept. When she awoke the house was silent, only the noise of the rain against the window disturbing the unearthly quiet. She was hot, suffocating, trapped in that room, in those clothes, in a life that was not of her own choosing. Silently she unlocked the door and stepped into the deserted hallway.
The kitchen was still and dark. Hannigan and Dulcie must have gone off to their rooms in the cozy little outbuilding by the stable. She could only hope Valerian had finally made it home through the storm. Otherwise she was alone in the house with a man she found far too disturbing.
She opened the kitchen door a crack, feeling the swirl of rain and wind slap against her face. It felt wonderful,
cool and harsh and cleansing. Without a moment’s hesitation she slipped outside, into the deluge, closing the door behind her.
She was instantly soaked to the skin, her white shirt plastered against her body. She could barely see two feet in front of her, and the wind whipped her hair into her face. If she had any sense at all, she’d turn and run back to her room. But she was feeling far from sensible.
The wildness in the storm called to a wildness in her heart, and she had to answer. She’d left her shoes in her room, and she took off through the flooded courtyard, zigzagging around the house to the gardens. She glanced back at the house, but she could see nothing but darkness through the driving rain. Phelan must have retired long ago, lulled to sleep by the rain and the wine. He wouldn’t disturb her this night.
She should try once more to run. No one would notice she’d gone until the morning, if then, and the rain would wipe any trace of her away with the dawn. If she had any sense at all, she would take this chance while she had it. She might not get another opportunity.
His arguments had been persuasive. She’d been no match for Lemur herself. Perhaps Phelan could protect her. But would he? Or would he sell her for the price of the diamond-and-pearl earbobs, and more besides?
She didn’t trust him. She didn’t trust any man. It was past time she remembered that fact.
She would need her shoes, her clothes, and money. She would need every last moment she could steal. And she could hesitate no longer.
She knew where he kept his money. Indeed, he’d made no effort to hide it from her. There was a stack of gold coins
and paper in the top drawer of his desk. She wouldn’t take all of it. He’d be more likely to realize she was missing if he came downstairs and found his desk pilfered. Besides, Valerian might need that money even more than she did, and he had been kind to her. Unlike his mocking, cynical older brother.
She moved silently back through the house, pausing in her room to gather up her shoes and clothing before heading down the hallway to the library. A lamp was burning low on the hall table, and she picked it up, moving into the library. It provided minimal illumination, but she headed toward the desk unerringly.
It was unlocked. Setting the lamp down, she reached for the money, prepared to tuck most of it inside her shirt and start back out into the rain, when she thought better of it.
Phelan’s watch lay on the desk. It was gold, and probably worth a great deal, and she’d seen him hold it in his hand more than once. She reached out to touch it, telling herself she ought to take it in payment for her missing earbobs. It felt warm to her damp hands, and she found she was caressing it, as a woman might touch the skin of a lover.
The room smelled of rain, of leather, of smoke, and wine. It reminded her of things she couldn’t have, things she didn’t want to have. She needed to run, she reminded herself desperately, picking up the watch.
It felt alive to her, part of him. The steady tick was like a heartbeat, the bright gold was warm in her hands, and she knew she couldn’t steal it. Couldn’t steal his money. Couldn’t run, no matter how much she knew she should.
She replaced the watch carefully. She slid the desk drawer silently shut, the money safe within. And then she turned to leave.
“That was a wise decision on your part,” Phelan Romney said, and Juliette let out a muffled shriek of panic, dropping her shoes and clothing on the floor. The coins that Mowbray had handed her spilled through the kerchief, rolling onto the floor with a noisy clatter.
He was sitting in the winged armchair in the dark, watching her. The bottle on the table next to him was empty, and there was a dark, ominous glitter in his eyes.
“I didn’t know you were there,” she said stupidly.
“Of course you didn’t. You’re not adept at stealth, fair Juliette. I heard you coming a mile away, and I simply extinguished the lamp. I wanted to see what you were going to do. You surprised me.”
“You were surprised that I decided to run?”
He shook his head, rising slowly, lazily, with a grace that barely showed the amount of wine he’d drunk that night. “Surprised that you changed your mind.”
“I haven’t changed my mind about running. I just decided not to rob you. You told me you’d beat me if I did, and I decided you were ruthless enough to do just that.”
“Of course you did,” he said, moving slowly across the room. During the hot, muggy night he’d unfastened his shirt, and it hung loosely around his bronzed torso. She thought absently of Valerian’s shaved chest, and a little frisson of emotion ran through her, one she refused to examine. “I’ve been such a damned brute so far, haven’t I?” he said.
She almost agreed, until she realized that once more he was being ironic. He probably thought he’d been the soul of restraint. And perhaps, in comparison, he had been. She only knew that each time he looked at her, she reacted as strongly as if he’d put his hands on her.