He swallowed, his muscles tensing as if he could rescue her from torture long past. “And now?”
“Now,” she said, her voice sweet, seductive, mingling with the scent of the roses. “Now I want to live, James. I want to ride a horse again. I want to go where I will. I want to meet a gentleman and be courted and marry and have children—lots of children. Shouldn’t I be allowed that at least?”
He remembered MacLeish from that afternoon. Handsome, the white of his teeth flashing as he’d grinned, so bright with his red hair clubbed back. Lady Phoebe had been smiling when Trevillion had come to fetch her.
MacLeish was perfect for her.
“Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse, his chest aching as if he’d taken a shot to the heart. “Yes, you deserve that and more.”
PHOEBE INHALED THE scent of roses, listening to Captain Trevillion’s deep rasp. He sounded wrong somehow. Perhaps angry? She shook her head. She simply couldn’t tell without seeing his face. Maybe he didn’t really approve her desires, despite his words.
“Don’t you want that as well?” she appealed to him. “A wife? A home? A family?”
She felt the movement as he stiffened next to her. “I hadn’t thought the matter over, my lady.”
His tone was dismissive, which lit something within her—a spark of… of… outrage perhaps, at such a blatant lie.
“Never?” she asked incredulously. “You’re a man in your prime, Captain, and yet you’d have me believe that you’ve never thought of the comforts of a warm home, a warm wife?”
“My lady, I’ve spent the last several years of my life in hard work. I haven’t had the time—”
A thought struck her and she bit her lip. “Unless you’re one of those gentlemen who prefer the company of other gentlemen.”
There was a short, tense silence.
Really, come to think of it, she’d never heard Captain Trevillion pay attention to any lady—other than herself, of course.
“No, my lady,” he bit out, sounding exasperated. “I am not such a gentleman.”
Wondrous the relief she felt, quite out of all proportion to the information. Well, anyone would, surely? The life of a gentleman who preferred other gentlemen was not always an easy one. Obviously that was her main concern. As a friend—
“We are friends, aren’t we, Captain?”
“I am your guard against danger, hired by your brother, therefore—”
He was so terribly pompous when he wanted to be! “Friends?”
A very heavy sigh. “If you wish to consider us so, then yes, we are friends, my lady.”
“I am glad,” she said, giving a little bounce on the bench. “Then as a friend tell me: you have courted ladies before, haven’t you?”
Perhaps he was simply socially awkward, poor man.
“Though it isn’t any of your concern, my lady,” he said, his voice so low it sounded like a growl, “and it’s quite improper to be having this discussion at all, yes, I have… courted females before.”
She pursed her lips. His emphasis on the word courted made it sound almost as if he meant something else entirely. Perhaps the females he’d been in association with hadn’t been ladies at all and he was too circumspect to tell her about it. He probably thought she had no idea about such things.
Being younger than nearly everyone else could be very trying sometimes.
“You know I have heard of ladies of easy virtue before,” she informed him kindly.
He made a choking sound. “My lady—”
“Call me Phoebe,” she said impulsively.
“I will not.”
“You did so once before.”
“And that was a mistake, my lady.”
“Very well. Are you interested in anyone right now?”
“I think this particular line of inquiry is over, my lady.”
She shook her head, sighing, and as she did so, her hand brushed against her skirts and the lump in her pocket. “Oh, I forgot.”
“Forgot what?” He sounded very suspicious.
She slipped her fingers through the slit at the side of her skirts and into the pocket hanging from her waist. Inside was a small stoppered bottle.
She held it up triumphantly. “This might help in your search.”
“I’m not actually searching, my lady.”
She ignored him and gingerly pried the cork stopper loose from the bottle. Immediately the scent of bergamot and sandalwood filled the bower.
“What is that?” he asked flatly, though any simpleton could’ve told him and whatever else he was, Captain Trevillion certainly wasn’t a simpleton.
“Perfume,” she said. “For you.”
“I don’t wear perfume.”
“I know, and it makes it terribly hard to find you in a room sometimes, particularly if you’re not moving,” she said. “Besides, ladies like perfume.”
He was silent for a moment as if digesting this information.
“I had it especially made,” she said enticingly, “by Mr. Hainsworth on Bond Street. He’s ever so clever with perfumes, and this one is very nice, I think. Not sweet. Not really floral at all. Quite manly. I think you’ll like it, but if you don’t we can try another. Perfumes do rather change after you’ve worn them awhile.”
“Very well,” he said abruptly.
“Lovely,” she said. “Now hold still.”
“You intend to put it on me now?”
Her lips twitched. She would’ve sworn that was alarm she heard in Captain James Trevillion’s voice—and she’d never heard it there before. Not even when armed men had come after her.
“Yes,” she said, placing her fingertips at the bottle’s opening and tipping it so that the perfume wet her skin. She reached up, sandalwood and roses filling her senses, and touched him.
Touched the bare skin of his face.
Her breath stuttered.
She’d touched very few men in her life. Her brother… she couldn’t think of any others, really. Her mind seemed to be slowing.
She felt stubble under her fingertips, almost tickling, as she stroked down. There was a chin, the edge of his jaw.
She inhaled, drawing her hand back to wet her fingertips again with the perfume, now heady in the air.
His breathing was very quiet.
She reached out again… and touched something soft. Oh, his lips!
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, moving her fingertips down under his chin where the stubble was heavier.
A third time she wet her fingers and this time when she touched him, she knew she’d found his throat, warm and living. She stroked slowly down, her fingers trailing over his Adam’s apple.
It flexed as he swallowed.
Lower, to the smooth skin at the base of his neck.
Her fingertips met his cravat, a maddening barrier, and she stroked along it, dipping her fingertip just a little beneath the cloth.
She realized suddenly that she’d quite passed the bounds of propriety.
Shaking, she drew her hand away and stoppered the little bottle. “Well. That’s done.”
He didn’t reply and she wished very much that he would.
She held out the bottle, waiting for a long second for him to take it.
His warm, big hand closed around hers and she felt it suddenly, his moist breath across her lips. He was close, so very close, and she could smell bergamot and sandalwood and roses and wine, everything mingling together to make a heady elixir.
She froze, waiting, wanting.
But he drew back, taking the bottle of perfume with him, and stood in a rustle of clothing. “Come, my lady, it’s time to go in.”
And really, there wasn’t any reason at all to feel disappointment. He was her bodyguard, nothing more.
Even if she no longer saw him in that light at all.
THE SUN SHONE brightly on the putrid waters of the Thames the next morning as Trevillion, Lady Phoebe, Reed, and Hathaway crossed to the south bank in a long flat boat.
“Your
brother won’t like this, my lady,” Trevillion muttered. He’d voiced the sentiment twice already and yet here he was. He ought to question his sanity.
“It’s only Harte’s Folly.” Lady Phoebe’s face was turned to the wind and the far shore as if she could see it. She wore a bright-pink dress trimmed in white lace, which made her look particularly young and innocent—and made him feel particularly old and cynical. “There won’t be anyone about save the workmen. And you’ve brought both Reed and Hathaway with their pistols and yours. Really, Captain, there’s no reason to fret so.”
And yet he did. “Bond Street seemed perfectly safe, too.”
“Thank you for allowing me to come.” She placed her soft palm atop his hand. “I do so want to see the gardens.”
“And Mr. MacLeish, my lady?” He couldn’t help asking. Damn him for a jealous old man.
She turned her bright smile on him. “Yes, of course. He says the most amusing things. I quite like him.”
He withdrew his hand from hers. “I hope, then, that his amusing conversation is worth the trip, my lady.” What a pompous ass he sounded.
“You’re very kind to indulge me, Captain,” she said, trailing her fingertips in the water. “I think I would’ve gone mad if you hadn’t.”
And that was the problem. He’d let her talk him into this trip. Let his sympathy for her overturn his own best judgment on the matter. Trevillion glanced sideways at Reed, wondering if the man had lost all respect for him, but the footman was watching the shore stoically. Next to him Hathaway fiddled nervously with his pistol. The footman had said he could shoot a pistol, but Trevillion wondered if he could do so with any accuracy.
The wherry bumped against the Harte’s Folly dock. Last time they’d been here the dock had been barely standing. Now a sturdy new dock had been erected, with several places for passengers to disembark.
“We’re here, my lady,” Trevillion said, though she probably had guessed when the boat jolted. “Reed, please get out first so that you can assist her ladyship.”
The footman nimbly scrambled up the steps attached to the dock and then helped Lady Phoebe out of the wherry. Hathaway came next and Trevillion last, hindered by his lame leg. Just beyond the dock was a clearing and beyond that what appeared to be a tangle of half-burnt trees and shrubs.
“Mr. MacLeish said he’d meet me at the site of the old theater,” Lady Phoebe said. “Apparently they’ve already torn it down.”
Trevillion nodded, offering his arm as they made their way along a path deeper into the destroyed garden. The two footmen trailed close behind.
“Can you tell me how it looks now?” Phoebe asked.
Trevillion cleared his throat, glancing around. In truth the garden was still a very long way from being restored. Green now covered the trees and shrubs that remained, but underneath were fire-blackened limbs, and the smell of soot still lingered in the air.
“The path has been cleared of debris from the fire,” he said carefully, “and properly leveled and graveled, my lady. Perhaps you feel it beneath your feet?”
“Yes, it’s much more even now.”
Trevillion had never attended the pleasure garden before the fire that had destroyed it, but there were signs of what it might’ve been. What it might be in the future.
“There are plantings along the path,” he said. “Some type of bush, I think, in a row.”
“Hedges,” Lady Phoebe supplied. “They used to line the paths, directing the visitors.”
“Quite.” He looked up. “A few rather large trees have been planted since we last came. Deciduous, I believe.”
She cocked her head in interest. “How large?”
“Twenty feet at least,” he said with some curiosity. “However were they planted?”
“Lord Kilbourne has been experimenting with transplanting young trees,” she replied. “At least that’s what Artemis says.”
“As far as I can see he’s been successful, my lady.”
“Are there any flowers?”
“Yes, daisies and something tall and thinnish with blue flowers.”
She gave him a look, which proved quite effective though she was blind. “Let me feel.”
He stopped and guided her hand to the flowers.
“Bellflowers?” she murmured to herself, touching the blooms and stem gently. “No, larkspur, I think. How nice, though it doesn’t have much of a scent.” She straightened and smiled up at him. “I’m so glad you’ve worn the perfume I gave you last night.”
“Of course, my lady.” He glanced at the footmen, who were studiously looking the other way. “Perhaps you ought to scent-mark Reed and Hathaway as well?”
Reed shot him a wide-eyed look, but Lady Phoebe waved the suggestion away. “No need. It’s only you I need to keep track of.”
Her words warmed something in his chest, made him blink and look away. I’m no longer a fit guard, he thought, I can’t keep my objectivity around her anymore. God help me. God help her.
He’d have to tell the duke. Soon. He was no longer able—
“Goddamn it, MacLeish!” The irate shout interrupted his near-desperate thoughts. “I don’t care what that conniving fop said, it’s my garden and I’ll have the final say on the bloody theater plans!”
Their party rounded one of the newly planted trees and the source of the shouting was immediately apparent.
Mr. Harte, the owner of Harte’s Folly, stood, legs spread, fists on hips, and face reddened from anger, confronting Malcolm MacLeish. He wore a gaudy scarlet coat trimmed in gold, the seams straining across his massive shoulders. His head was bare, the sun glinting on shoulder-length tawny-brown hair.
MacLeish had his arms crossed defensively as he faced the other man, but he dropped his arms and straightened when he saw Phoebe.
Harte turned at MacLeish’s movement. His scowl immediately transformed into a slightly over-genial smile at the sight of Lady Phoebe, but when he glanced at Trevillion the smile dimmed. “Captain Trevillion! What brings you to my gardens—and with such a lovely companion?”
“Harte.” Trevillion nodded. He’d met the man only once or twice, and then not under the best of circumstances. “This is Lady Phoebe Batten, the sister of the Duke of Wakefield.”
“My lady,” Harte said, bowing low. “I’m honored by your presence in my gardens, though I fear it’s not yet in the best of shape for a lady to see.”
“Well then, it’s just as well that I’m blind,” Lady Phoebe replied easily.
Astonishment was clear on Harte’s face for a moment. To his credit, though, it was short-lived. “Would you like me to guide you about my garden, my lady? I’d be honored to do so.”
At Harte’s offer, MacLeish cleared his throat. “Actually, I invited Lady Phoebe to come see our progress. Besides, did you not say that you meant to meet with a new actress?”
Harte looked alarmed at the reminder. “Damn me, I’d nearly forgotten. I must go, my lady, but you’re in capable hands with Mr. MacLeish. And Malcolm”—Harte gave the younger man an unsmiling glance—“we’ll continue this discussion tomorrow, yes?”
“Yes, sir,” MacLeish replied, looking nervous.
Harte nodded and strode off down the path toward the river.
MacLeish seemed to breathe a sigh of relief as soon as the other man was gone.
He turned to Phoebe. “Welcome, my lady. I’d begun to fear you would not come.” The man’s red hair shone in the sun, bright and youthful, not a gray hair in sight.
Damn him.
“Did you think I’d forget your invitation?” Lady Phoebe smiled, a dimple flashing beside her lush mouth.
She took her hand from Trevillion’s arm, holding it out to the architect.
MacLeish bent over her hand, his lips brushing her knuckles. Trevillion wished he could knock the other man’s touch away from her. MacLeish’s grass-green suit complemented the deep-pink gown Lady Phoebe wore.
Trevillion stepped back.
They looked a perfe
ct couple.
“I’m so glad you’re here, my lady,” MacLeish said, glancing up at her from his bow. “Come. Let me show you what I plan.”
She linked her arm with his.
As they turned, Trevillion fell into step a discreet distance behind them.
MacLeish bent his head to hers, but his voice still carried. “Is it necessary that your guards follow you so close?”
“Well…”
“Yes,” Trevillion growled. It mattered not that she might wish him elsewhere. His job was to guard her.
“Then I welcome your three chaperones, my lady,” MacLeish replied in an amused tone. “Now, we’re presently strolling along the path that will lead to the grand theater. On your right is the ornamental pond that Lord Kilbourne has taken such pains over. He hopes to erect a bridge to a small island in the middle of the pond and when it is ready, I may invite you once again so that you may traverse it.”
He spoke to her as an equal, Trevillion mused with grudging respect. That is, MacLeish didn’t talk to Lady Phoebe as if being blind had made her soft in the head. Sadly, this wasn’t always the case.
“Oh, how lovely,” Lady Phoebe replied. “Tell me, does Lord Kilbourne plan to plant scented shrubs and flowers in the garden?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know,” MacLeish replied regretfully. “I’ll ask him the next time I see him, depend upon it.”
“Is he not here today?”
“No, I believe he’s taken his family to visit a fair outside London.”
“That sounds a lovely outing.” Her voice was wistful.
MacLeish had drawn her near the ornamental pond and Trevillion watched Lady Phoebe closely as she leaned down. One slip on that bank and she’d go in.
Which was perhaps why he didn’t see the six men advancing on them until it was too late.
Chapter Six
Corineus grasped the long, flowing mane of the white horse. He held fast as she surged toward the shore, bearing him with her until they both touched the sand beneath the waves. But when the enchanted horse would’ve returned to the sea, Corineus took the iron chain from his neck and flung it over the horse’s neck, bridling her.…
Dearest Rogue Page 8