The Rogue's Folly

by Donna Lea Simpson

  It had been two weeks and two days. With a self-deprecating grin she told him that her cook’s curiosity had forced her into the charity she should have already been attending to on her own. Mrs. Connors, the supplier of delicious rabbit pie and fresh bread, had become alarmed at the amount of food that was missing from the kitchen every morning. She had accused the potboy of stealing it and May had been forced to confess to her own theft to prevent him from being punished.

  But what was she doing with all that food? Mrs. Connors had asked.

  “I didn’t know what to say!” May said later to Etienne, throwing her legs over the arm of the shabby chair that sat under one of the open windows. “But I remembered a conversation with . . . with a woman who has an estate up north, and she said before she leaves to go anywhere for an extended visit, she makes sure that her cook has standing orders to continue her work of distributing food to those in need. And so I told Mrs. Connors that I was taking food to people.” She hung her head, her cheeks blazing with pink. “I am ashamed it took this to make me realize how neglectful of my duties I have been. So I am going out with food to those in need. Even though I don’t know who is in need. How do I find that out?”

  Etienne laughed. “I would suggest that you speak with the holy man of your village, the vicar.”

  May blushed even more hotly and squirmed in her chair. “I suppose. If I have to.”

  Alerted by her tone, Etienne pushed himself up on the couch and gazed at her. “What is it, little one? You do not like the reverend?”

  “He . . . he looks at me strangely. Like he wants to . . . to . . .”

  She broke off and looked away, fixing her gaze on the suddenly fascinating leg of the plain wood table. Etienne frowned. He had thought she was becoming more comfortable with herself, but truly nothing had been resolved in her mind. Rather than telling him not to kiss her again, she shied like a nervous rabbit when he touched her. He could not tell whether it was that old fear reasserting itself or just the natural modesty of a maiden.

  “He wants to . . . what, little one? Kiss you? You are very kissable,” he said gently. “Perhaps you do not know this, but you have many things that a man would find enticing.”

  “But he saw me in breeches the first morning I found you here, and he looked me up and down and his eyes got . . . hot. And he watched my . . . my bottom as I walked up the stairs to change.”

  Etienne gave a shout of laughter, though he was surprised that he also felt a spurt of possessive jealousy that another man had seen his little one looking oh, so delectable in breeches. “Perhaps the good vicar should not have revealed himself, little one, but I assure you, it is a common male failing to find such things as a sweetly rounded bottom make one . . . er, hot.”

  “Really?” She searched his eyes. “If it is just natural, then why does it make my flesh crawl when he looks at me that way?”

  He considered her words and then patted the couch beside him. “Come, sit here.”

  She joined him and he draped his arm over her shoulders.

  “Little one—I call you that from affection, not to taunt you—there are two possible reasons your skin crawls when he looks at you that way. You . . .” He searched for the right words, the words that would not hurt her. “You have some aversion to the male touch, no?”

  She shrugged.

  “It is natural to be nervous of men, for we are very different creatures from the ladies, but we are nothing to fear. Believe me, any woman who understands her power over us poor fellows has the upper hand, as you English say. Just a look, a word from you, your merest touch can make us your slave.

  “But there are men from whom there is much to fear, men like that Captain Dempster, men who delight in giving women pain and humiliation. And so you must understand this flesh crawling. Is it just your fear of a man’s desire, or is it because he reminds you of the terrible captain?”

  May considered it. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I think . . . it feels like a little of both.”

  “Do you feel danger from him?” Etienne said sharply, feeling his pulse throb. He would kill the next man who hurt her, even if he died in the attempt.

  “No!” she said. “No, I don’t fear him in that way. I just think his look is too . . . daring.”

  After she left that day, Etienne lay and thought about May a long time. She was confused, was his little one, and he wanted so badly to help her clarify her feelings toward men and her fears of intimacy. But how could he help her? He would have to think of a way, for he did not believe she would ever be truly happy and at ease until she rid herself of these feelings.

  • • •

  May carried her basket into the village. It was her third trip there in as many days, since she had told cook that she was taking food for that reason. The woman had enthusiastically named names of people she knew could use a little help and May had, awkwardly at first, for she didn’t want to offend anyone with ill-placed charity, taken cook’s delectable foodstuffs to some of the needier families. She was starting to get a feel for who could use help and who would be offended by it.

  She spent a half hour with old Mrs. Landon, the former vicar’s widow. She was childless and elderly, and cook’s delicate pastries and delicious jams were welcome to her as a rare treat, but May had the feeling that her own visit was almost as important. The people of her village had gotten used to little in the way of largesse from Lark House over the years, but Mrs. Landon seemed to enjoy just talking to May over a cup of weak tea.

  Old Mr. Bottril was in his nineties and had outlived his children, even. At one time he had been the head stableman for the former owner of Lark House, before Lord Gerhard van Hoffen bought it in the previous century. Now he subsisted on whatever his grandson, who lived near Margate, could spare from his own family coffers. But May found that the old man was a fascinating fund of information about Lark House and about the sire of her own horse, Cassie. She found herself thinking, as they talked and she dispensed a jar of cook’s best beef soup and a loaf of crusty bread, how much the old man would enjoy meeting Etienne and seeing Théron. She sighed. If only!

  But she would see that Bill visited and mined the old man for information on her mare’s stud lines. Her stableman would enjoy the visit too, she thought, and together they might begin working on her dream, a line of champion horses from Lark House Stables.

  And then there was the Johnson family. Mrs. Johnson was only of an age with May, but she was still bedridden after delivering her fifth child in as many years. Her husband worked ten or twelve hours a day and took on extra work from area farmers when he could get it. Prepared food from Lark House was welcomed by the young mother as the proverbial manna from heaven. The poor woman had no energy for baking, nor for soup making or preserving.

  The oldest child was a golden-haired little girl, and she stared at May with her fingers stuck in her mouth. May had stayed far longer than she had intended, helping the little maid, not more than twelve herself, who did everything for the weak Mrs. Johnson, to tidy the place and get the children cleaned up. The woman had almost wept with gratitude, making May horribly uncomfortable and aware that she had neglected these people for far too long. She determined that she would ask Mrs. Connors to send one of their kitchen maids to help the Johnsons temporarily until the mother was back on her feet. It was the most solid help she could think to offer.

  The tiny five-year-old, the eldest of the Johnson brood, followed her outside when she left and clung to her legs, making May’s gray cambric dress grubby with her jammy fingers. But when she knelt and gazed into the wide eyes she was surprised by the sharp glint of intelligence that lurked in their blue depths. She resolved to come back to this house with whatever books of her own from her earliest years she could track down and give the little girl a few reading lessons in advance of the school opening.

  Glancing back at the house as she started home, she watched the little girl squatting in the dirt and drawing pictures with a stick to entertain h
er younger brother. These were the children of poverty, the children she sought to educate so they would have a life and aspirations above illiterate labor. But beyond that, she felt a curious melting in the region of her heart when she looked at the little girl. She thought of Etienne’s words about having a “saucy little girl,” a daughter. Somehow she believed that he would be a good father for a girl child to have, the kind of father he spoke of every young girl needing.

  And so she had become used to her charitable rounds. It was a brisk October morning. She strolled through town, having made her deliveries, and thought she would stop in at the vicarage and try to get over her ridiculous aversion to the good reverend Dougherty. For he must be good. From conversations she had had with the widow Landon it was apparent that he and his sister did much to make her comfortable. Their charity extended to other members of their parish as well, who appeared to do rather better than those who professed a faith other than the Church of England. It was natural, though, May supposed, that he would concentrate most of his effort on those who attended his services, seeing them as his rightful flock.

  The Johnsons were of the Methodist faith, if they had any faith at all, and were not visited by the vicar. But May intended her school to be free of any denomination, wanting all from Catholic to Methodist to feel free to send their children. Little Molly Johnson, the eldest of their brood, would definitely have a place.

  And so she strolled down the dusty walkway by a sturdy yew hedge that bordered the village green. The day was dry and bright, the blue of the sky accenting the brilliant foliage of the turning trees, and she gazed upon the activity of normal village life with a deep peaceful feeling that had stolen over her in the last week. She could not help but feel that it had something to do with Etienne.

  She enjoyed looking after him, as weak and womanly as that made her seem to herself. But she enjoyed just as much the hours spent sitting and talking, laughing over jokes shared, and taking their midday meal together, as they invariably did. Dodo was beginning to look askance at her and the amount of time she spent away from Lark House. She could not tell the elderly woman where she went, and so she claimed just to be riding and walking, enjoying her newfound freedom.

  She nodded her recognition to the passing draper’s assistant, young Paul Johnson, Mrs. Johnson’s brother-in-law. She knew by sight most of the people in her small village. Lark House was the premier residence of the area, for her friends, Sir Tolliver Gowan and his wife Jenny, were several miles north, nearer Ramsgate than Dover.

  But then, coming out of the tavern, the Blue Hog, two men strode. One was tall and thin, with a look of some quality about him, but the other was squat and swarthy, and his whole figure and stance suggested repressed violence. She stopped and stared, shivering for some reason, though the day was warm enough. They must be travelers passing through, she thought, for she had never seen them before in her life. And yet they seemed to know their way around, and several of the villagers passing by tipped their hats, a sure sign of recognition.

  “I see you are looking over the newcomers to our fair village,” a voice said in her ear.

  She jumped and whirled. “M-Mr. Dougherty! How nice to see you. I was going to call on you and your sister at the vicarage.”

  His hazel eyes widened as did his smile. “To what do we owe the honor, my lady? We shall be quite overcome by your condescension, I must say. Isabel was quite taken by you when we visited your home. We missed you day before yesterday. Lady Dianne said you were out riding and had not yet returned when we came again to speak of the fall festival. It is our third visit on that mission and we have only seen you once.”

  “Hmmm, yes, so sorry to have missed you,” May muttered, not really listening to him, her gaze returning to the two men who had turned and were strolling up High Street. “Who are they, Mr. Dougherty? Do you know them?”

  “We have passed a few moments in the Blue Hog, and they have stood me a pint or two. Not,” he added hastily, “that I make a habit of frequenting the tavern. But a man of God must go where the people are, and many a conversion has been made over a dram of good whiskey or a pint of ale.”

  “So who are they?” May said, impatient with his rationalization of spending time at the tavern. Did he think she cared if he drank with the common folk? He could not be farther wrong, as she did not think of him from one Sunday to the next.

  Dougherty clasped his hands behind his back and rocked back on his heels. “They are here, I believe, looking for someone, though they have not said as much. But their questions lead me to the inevitable conclusion that they are trying to bring to justice an escaped murderer. Not to alarm you, Lady May, that such a man is loose in this vicinity. They impress me as able, determined gentlemen. They will find their quarry.”

  • • •

  “Etienne!”

  It was dark already, with only a sliver of moon to find the way. She had not dared take Cassie from her stall, for Bill would have known and demanded to know where she was riding to so late, but she had not been able to get away earlier. And so she had walked to the folly. As she was not riding she was wearing a gown, her favorite, a soft gold color with a froth of pale lace at the neckline, and had a shawl over her shoulders. By the time she got to the folly, her heart was thudding wildly from the unexpected strangeness of the forest at night.

  She crept into the folly and made her way over to the couch where Etienne slept. He was not there!

  “Ma petite, what are you doing here at this time of night?”

  She whirled to see him standing at the door, holding up a lantern. Her heart pounded. The clothes he wore were ones a paramour of her mother’s wore a few years back. She had made another trip up into the attic as the weather cooled to fetch him some warmer clothes and he now wore a jacket. It fit tight over Etienne’s surprisingly broad shoulders. He was beautiful, she thought again, awe making her mouth drop open, though no words were forthcoming. His chestnut curls glinted in the lantern light and the breeches he wore clung lovingly to long sturdy legs, the only wrinkle being where the bandage was at his groin.

  And she should most definitely not be noticing such things.

  She turned crimson and stood, awkwardly. “I . . . I had to come. I needed to ask you something.”

  He came in and put the flickering lamp on the table. He looked her over and an odd expression blazed in his warm brown eyes. “How pretty you are in that color!” He reached out and touched her auburn curls, massed on top of her head in careless abandon. “And how strange to see you in anything but breeches! I have become accustomed to your attire, you see. You stun me in such a pretty frock.”

  Nonsense. He was being gallant, something he was expert at. He had been known, in the London circles they both had frequented, to be a man who could be depended upon to be kind to the shyest of new debutantes and the most backward of wallflowers.

  “Oh, Etienne, I needed to talk to you,” she said, moving instinctively closer to him, wanting to feel his warmth wash over her.

  He took her hands in his own and pulled her down on the couch to sit beside him. He kept her cold hands clasped in his own warm ones. “What is it? You are agitated, and cold.” He pulled her shawl more closely about her shoulders in a tender gesture. “I would not have ma petite soeur become ill.”

  His little sister? How lowering to find that he considered her thus, though she had told herself he was naught but a brother to her, the brother she had never had.

  “Your . . . your sister?”

  He looked puzzled for a moment. “Sister? No! No, little one. In my religion, the sisters—the nuns, you know—they do nursing. They take care of the wounded, as you look after me. It meant my little nurse, you see.”

  She felt an overwhelming relief, but could not for the life of her imagine why it mattered if he had thought of her as a little sister. Did he have a sister? Did he have family? She stored away that question to ask him at another time, but right now she had to tell him.

  “Etienn
e, there were two men in the village. Mr. Dougherty says they told him they are there looking for an escaped murderer. You . . . you are not who they are . . .” Her voice faltered and trailed off.

  “What did they look like?” he asked.

  He was squeezing her hands rather tightly she noticed as she described them. He turned pale and fear glazed his eyes. She knew that Etienne was one of the bravest of men, with a foolhardy courage that had taken him through many difficult spots, as he had told her in describing some of the places he had been in his travels. He recognized her description and he feared them, she was sure of it. If he was afraid, it must be very bad.

  He stared into space, and she gazed steadily at him. What was this feeling she had for him? she wondered. She reached up and tucked one of his dark curls behind his ear, and he grasped her hand, turning her palm to his lips and kissing it. Her insides quivered and she leaned against him, sighing with deep satisfaction when he encircled her in his arms.

  The night noises rustled around them, and a breeze through the open gothic window made the lamp gutter and go out. They were alone in the utter darkness and she found herself burying her face in his neck, breathing in his clean scent, feeling the pulse of his strong heart pushing blood through his veins. She raised her head and found his lips, covering them with her own, the banked fires she had tamped down since their last kiss blazing into a scorching heat between them.

  In the dark there was no right or wrong, and as he lowered her down to the couch and pulled her to him she responded to his ardor, winding her arms around his neck, kneading the muscular swell of his shoulders, allowing her hands to trace the bunched muscles of his back.

  He murmured in French, sweet phrases that became nonsense in her befuddled brain as the heat of their shared kisses—wet and warm, tongue touching tongue, eager bodies pressed to each other—sent prickles of excitement over her body. His hands spanned the smallness of her waist and cradled her hips, pulling her against him as he lay beside her, pulling her slender form under his own.