by Lynn Kerstan
So she spent her evenings fending off flirtatious gentlemen, listening to the gossip of females who were there in hopes of witnessing a scandal, and sometimes, unable to bear the din, she retreated to a quiet corner with a book. Always she kept a wary eye on doorways, prepared to slip from any room entered by either of the Keynes brothers, her hand hovering near to where she’d stashed her knife.
But the Beast wasn’t to be seen, nor had his disturbing brother made an appearance. Michael Keynes watched her, though, when he thought she wouldn’t notice. She had seen his shadow behind the curtains of his Casina as he looked out though a gap he’d opened with his fingers.
In his way, he was even more dangerous than the Beast. He made her imagine what she had long known could never be, and want things she could never have. It was as if he called silently to her from a covert, called her to enter a place she dared not go.
But it was only her imagination, because he rarely spoke to her at all. And she was careful to avoid him, inventing errands that took her from the cottage when he arrived to play chess with her father, as he did most afternoons.
“I will see to it you come to no harm,” he had once said.
She rather thought he meant it, at the time. But her safety was well beyond his reach now.
She was alone in a quiet parlor, wrestling with her demons between paragraphs of the book she had been trying to read, when she heard the sound of a pianoforte. Rousing herself, she joined the crowd streaming along the passageway to the Sala da Musica. When David Fairfax played, it was never to an empty room.
She found a chair near the wall and settled to listen, remembering when he first began to study music. He’d often stayed at Seacrest, and when he practiced, family, guests, servants and pets all found excuses to leave the house. Only her father had encouraged him. Now, listening to him play was her greatest pleasure.
After a time, the air in the room abruptly changed. Became charged, as with the oncoming of a storm. She stiffened with apprehension.
Scarcely hearing the final sonata, she applauded with the others when it was done. His faced flushed, David rose and bowed, looking pleased and surprised at the warm response of his audience. He always looked that way, and his feelings were, she knew, entirely genuine. Finally the room grew quiet. He gently closed the pianoforte and stood for a moment, detaching himself from the muse that possessed him when he played. Then he turned his open, welcoming gaze on her.
“It was wonderful,” she said, coming up to him, watching his brown eyes widen with pleasure. “Thank you.” She risked a glance over her shoulder. Michael Keynes was near the door, shoulders propped against the wall, unshaven, unkempt, looking directly at her. A dangerous presence blocking the way out.
But she had no excuse to linger, and besides, he would surely outwait her. He had come for her. What did he want?
“Ah. There’s Michael,” David said, clearly delighted. “I know he looks awful, but really, he’s not so bad as he would have you think.”
How could he be? she wondered as David took her arm.
Keynes’s disturbing eyes glittered as she approached. He seemed to drag himself away from the wall, lurched, produced an awkward bow. The smell of brandy made her wrinkle her nose.
“Miss Holcombe,” he said, ignoring David. “You are radiant. You outshine the sun.”
“Simple enough,” she replied, disgusted. “It’s nighttime. And you are drunk.”
“That’s the consensus.”
He was repellently cheerful. Except for his eyes, which were . . . Oh, she could not say. Intense. Urging her to pay attention.
He turned to David. “Come take supper with me.” His voice was slurred. “You’ll have to bring the supper. Will you? I’m hungry enough for two or three people. You can stay the night if you like. Hari’s gone somewhere. It’s raining. Did you know it was raining?”
And just when she had decided he was altogether cat-shot, he said with perfect clarity under his breath, “Miss Holcombe, go to the Limonaia. I’ll follow you. David, say something idiotic.”
David, trying to think of something idiotic to say, could only manage to look idiotic. Finally he produced, in a cracking tone, a question about what Michael Keynes wanted for supper.
“Bread. Meat. Cheese.” Keynes poked David on the chest. “Hot tea.” And softly, almost without moving his lips, “Arrange it, and then come to the Limonaia. Miss Holcombe, why are you still here?”
She might not comprehend the purpose of it, but she recognized a staged scene when she saw it. And felt, for no accountable reason, a wish to impress this man she feared. “Sir, you are no fit company for a lady,” she declared with an excess of dramatic fervor. And then she sailed through the door and into the passageway, a little embarrassed but greatly curious.
If he was planning to seduce her, which had been her initial thought, he’d not have invited David to join them. And there was something new in him, a sense of purpose she had not seen in him before. Until tonight he had seemed to be marking time, waiting for something over which he had no control. And for him, she expected, that was neither a comfortable nor a natural state of mind.
She, on the other hand, had become an artist of waiting, an expert at marking time. But like him, she sensed when events were about to converge with her at the center of them. And this time, she would not be found wanting. This time, she would control the outcome.
The Limonaia, another of Beata’s Tuscan fancies, had been constructed in the western wing of the villa, with a glass wall to admit afternoon sunlight. Tiles of glass were set in the ceiling as well, and large windows opened onto corridors connecting the Limonaia to the section of the building set apart for meeting rooms. All were empty this time of year.
She slipped through the door, cedarwood studded with medallions of stained glass, and breathed in the fragrance of citron trees and smoke from the braziers that kept them warm. The Limonaia, octagonal with walls of stone tracery and glass, had floors of enameled tile, marble benches, and two score small trees—lemon and Spanish orange—set in ceramic pots. A few, cultivated in a greenhouse on the edge of the property, were heavy with fruit. The others, defying the change of seasons, flaunted lush leaves. They were dusted weekly, she knew, by the servants.
Rain streaked the glass wall and beat on the ceiling. It was well after midnight, and an orange glow from the braziers and the wall sconces in the corridors provided the only light. She felt nervous, like a maiden in the Colosseum waiting for the great-toothed cats to be let in. And because she must reveal nothing of her anticipation or her fear, she went to a shadowed bench near the center of the Limonaia, sat neatly on it with her hands folded on her lap, and waited for the electric hum in the air that always signaled the presence of Michael Keynes.
It came to her shortly after, the sound that wasn’t quite a sound. She rose, arms at her sides, and turned.
In the dim light, he was a tall, wide-shouldered shadow with ghostly eyes. “I was followed,” he said in a tone that could not be heard beyond the small room where they stood facing each other. “You didn’t have to run from me.” This time his voice, a little too loud, startled her.
She moved away from the bench. “I didn’t run. I never run. But I prefer to be alone.”
“And so you are. Alone with me.” Then, quietly, “There is a woman in my Casina—”
“I’ve no doubt of it.” Her voice, always a husky whisper, required no disguise. “And I am not adept at games, sir. What do you want of me?”
A long silence. Things unspoken. She felt them, like the vibration of his presence. Like the mysterious summons in his eyes.
“What do I want?” he echoed with a laugh. “Can’t you guess?” Then—“It’s the Duchess of Tallant. My brother’s wife. She requires help.”
“She came to you?”
“A measure of her despe
ration.” Loudly, “Why don’t you like me, butterfly?”
She lifted her hands in a gesture that held him away. “What should I do, then?”
“Let me close enough to speak without being heard. But make it seem you fear me.”
Oh, I do, she thought, wondering at it. At that moment she was absolutely sure he wouldn’t hurt her, and even more certain he could easily destroy her.
“Stay away!” she said when he staggered forward. He was pushing her toward the marble bench, using the motion to cover his speech. She resisted to give him time, surprised that she was enjoying this dance they did, this game they played. How long since she had enjoyed anything at all?
“She has come a long way through the rain. She needs something warm to wear and advice I am unable to give her. One kiss,” he demanded. “Just one.”
When she felt the bench against the backs of her legs, she sank onto it. “Why this charade?”
“Dear God but you are lovely. To keep her safe. To keep you safe. Let me, Miss Holcombe. Miranda. ‘Oh brave new world, that . . .’ that does something. I can’t recall what.”
“‘That has such creatures in it’,” she said, sounding like a schoolmistress, rather impressed that he’d guessed the origin of her name. The Tempest was her father’s favorite play.
His teeth, when he grinned, were tinged with red-orange light. “I need you to come to my rooms without being seen. I’m fond of the theater. Fond of you.”
“Who is watching us? And why?”
“I don’t know for certain. But anyone associated with me is at risk. If you agree to help, you must take great care. One kiss, Miranda. One little kiss. Then I’ll go away.”
“You can’t mean that.”
“I do. All of it. Let me kiss you, or nearly. I’ll make it appear you are forced. Then slap me and go.” He stumbled forward until he was bent over her, caught himself by putting his hands on her shoulders. “Unless you want out of this entirely.”
She ducked beneath his arms and escaped the bench. There was the sound of his palms hitting the marble, an oath, and the shuffle of his feet moving closer. She spun around to face him. “No.” she said, hands raised to ward him off. “You are foxed.”
“Come on, butterfly. Settle your father and come to my Casina. Don’t be seen. I wager you’ll like it.”
He took hold of her wrists and drew her inexorably closer. His eyes glowed red, as if a fire raged behind them. One hand, large and firm, burned at her waist.
The breath caught in her throat. Frozen, she gazed helplessly at the lines of his face, the black hair limned with firelight, his mouth a little open as he brought his lips nearer hers. Fingers slipped into her hair, cradled her nape.
Her heart thumped wildly. His breath tingled at her cheek. Heat came off him like a brazier, heat and strength and purpose.
He would choke her now.
And then . . . and then . . .
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but now would be a good time for you to slap me.”
The spell broke.
She wrenched loose, brought back her arm. A loud crack as her gloved hand caught him on the face. A louder oath.
She rushed to the door and fled down the passageway.
Chapter 10
Michael sank onto the bench and rubbed his throbbing cheek.
Something had happened there, between the moment he drew Miranda into his arms and the slap on his cheek. She had gone stiff. Cold. Her eyes had been empty, her breathing ragged.
At first he’d thought she was continuing to play her part, as she had done from the first, effectively and swift to take a cue. But something—no, someone—had thrown her into a panic. He had done it. His touch, and the prospect of a more intimate touch.
He needn’t have taken it so far. The charade had already done its work, and he could as well have told her to bolt the moment he reached for her. But he was a Keynes, to the depths of his black, black soul. And he had wanted to touch Miranda Holcombe. Had wanted that since he first saw her, and wanted a good deal more as well. Sometimes, between his nightmares, he dreamed of her.
But even in his dreams she remained beyond his reach, floating above him in the clear, clean air. And then he would be walking on a dry riverbed toward Sher Ka Danda, and she would spring on him, the white, blue-eyed tigress, and clamp her shining teeth on his neck.
Of course she despised him. How could it be otherwise? But he had lacked the will to resist her. And had ventured only a little, really. The briefest of touches. But she could not bear even that from him.
A good man, a decent man, would be resolving to spare her such offense in future.
He was already hoping another opportunity would present itself.
Not that he expected much. The press of her fingers on his arm as he helped her into a carriage, perhaps, or the chance to help her don a cloak.
Well, it was all rather pathetic, his longing for the unattainable. He felt like a puppy trailing after a queen, hoping to be petted.
He felt like an idiot.
And where the devil had David got off to? Better go find him, get some supper to Norah, wait for Miranda. If he hadn’t frightened her away altogether.
As he entered the passageway, he saw the footman who had been trailing him fade back into the shadows. Being followed was nothing new. In India, where all sorts of people had set themselves to trace his movements, he had developed an instinct for sensing their presence. It took longer to learn how to throw them off his scent, but as in most other things, he’d taken his lessons from Hari Singh.
Since coming to England, neither of them had detected any sign of pursuit, but that would doubtless change when the Archangel returned. No, sooner than that. When the Duke of Tallant made a serious effort to eliminate his brother.
Beata had set the footman on him, he was fairly sure. Confirmation came shortly after, when he turned a corner and saw her waiting for him, flamboyant in blue velvet and gold braid, her expression stern and a glint of wickedness in her dark eyes.
“You have been naughty,” she chided, shaking her head.
“I thought you wanted me to be naughty.”
“But in control of yourself, mascalzone. You are drunk, I think.”
It was true. In a real crisis, he would have handled himself without difficulty. He’d had lots of practice. But in ordinary times, there was slippage at the edges. Mistakes were made. He was supposed to be helping his brother’s wife, but he’d got distracted by his obsession with Miranda. He deserved Beata’s rebuke.
“Miss Holcombe has difficulties enough,” she said, “without an importunate wretch accosting her in my Limonaia. If you require a woman, Mico, I can supply you one. Although I expect you could see to that yourself. Have you failed to notice the many fine ladies who come here with no other purpose than to draw your attention?”
He thought she was dangling for flattery, or perhaps more than that. “I can’t help but notice them. Nor can I manage to remember them. Compared to you, madonna, they are moths beating against the window glass.”
“Mah! You refuse any woman who dangles after you because she offers no challenge. But Miss Holcombe won’t have you, and for that reason, you desire her. Am I right?”
“Not altogether.” The brandy was clouding his thoughts. “You have said you want me, and you are a challenge on every count. I cannot think why I went sniffing after Miss Holcombe this evening, nor do I desire her. It would be like bedding one of those virgin saints with crossed legs and woeful eyes. She is not for me.”
“See that she isn’t. You are free to run wild here, with my blessing, so long as you do not torment a young woman with an ailing father to tend to.”
“Do you wish me to leave?”
“I wish you to leave her be. Well, perhaps I wish a little more than
that. I shall keep you around to play with for a while longer.” She moved closer, lifted a hand to his throbbing jaw. “You bear her mark.”
“As you see, Miss Holcombe can take care of herself.”
“You escaped lightly, my wolf. When your brother imposed himself, she slashed his hand with her knife.”
“Did she, by God?” Admiration gave way to concern. For such an offense, Jermyn would make her pay.
“She has many knives, all of them slender and sharp and jeweled. From India, I believe. Smaller, but much like the knives you carry.”
“Thanks for the warning. Did you have me followed tonight?”
She gave a delicate shrug. “I thought it best. Will you continue to make it necessary?”
“I’ll leave Miss Holcombe alone, if that’s what you mean. But I hope you won’t require me to relinquish the company of her father.”
“It is not my intention to restrict you in any way. Your brother, however, is forbidden to my Palazzo until he begs pardon of me. Ah, there is David with your picnic supper. Good night, rogue. Unless you prefer my company to his?”
“I’m drunk,” he reminded her.
“So you are, and therefore of no use to me. A pity.”
He bowed and waited until she was out of sight before turning to Fairfax. Beside him stood a servant with a heavily laden tray. Damn.
“I went to the Limonaia,” said David, stepping forward, “but you were gone. Where’s Mira? What did you do to her?”
“Nothing. Frightened her a little.” The servant had to be got rid of. “She’ll need help with her father. Why don’t you see they get settled? Then you can come over and have supper. Stay the night in Hari’s room if you like. No point slogging home in the rain.”
“I’ll do that,” David said aloud. “Couldn’t shake him,” he mouthed. “Don’t eat everything before I get there.”
The servant, a tall young man with a blaze of freckles, stood immobile as Michael went to him and lifted the covers, one by one, from plates of ham, cheese, relishes, stewed mushrooms, a meat pie, some sort of custard, crusty rolls, and the makings for tea. “Where’s the sirloin?” he demanded. “Roast chicken? And I have a sweet tooth. Cakes, biscuits, tarts.”