Harbor for the Nightingale

by Kathleen Baldwin

  I say nothing.

  “Of course, you did. Very good.” He chuckles and regains his absurd confidence. There is singing in his soul again. “Yes, but don’t you see—that’s the beauty of this arrangement. Because of your . . . your work at Stranje House you have countless adventures ahead of you, and now, so do I. This is temporary. Neither of us will be permanently entangled. It’s the perfect arrangement.”

  Perfect?

  I press down the rumble rising in my throat. Now, it all becomes clear. I want to roar at him. The scoundrel thinks he is free to dally with me and then walk away without looking back.

  I will not allow it.

  He leans down to kiss me. When I draw back, he uses a deeper, more seductive tone. “Come, Miss Barrington, you know I am right. We ought to kiss. We must fall as close to the truth as possible if we are to persuade Prince George that we are in love.”

  It’s the possibility of actually falling for him that frightens me. I endured enough pain when my father walked away without a backward glance. I will not suffer it from Lord Kinsworth.

  I swallow, hunting for my lion claws, and something to say that will foil his little scheme. Except his words are eerily similar to advice Miss Stranje often gives us regarding prevarication; always stay as close to the truth as possible.

  Very well. Here’s the truth.

  “No. I don’t want to kiss you.” I try to edge away from him, but his hand holds me in place with barely a touch. “It simply is not done. In my country, such behavior is a crime. We would both be thrown in prison or whipped.” I tilt my head, glancing sideways at him to see if he is sufficiently terrorized.

  “Prison, huh?” He thinks on it a moment, but then stuns me with that irrepressible grin of his. “Lucky thing we live here.”

  His music is playing cat and mouse games, I know if I look up, he will wear me down with that impish grin of his.

  “And anyway, I have never kissed anyone before.” I stare down at the toes of my shoes, afraid to meet his gaze. “I don’t know how.”

  “It is a small matter. One puckers one’s lips and—” A chuckle bursts apart his demonstration. “Surely, you’ve kissed your mother and father? Or they kissed you?”

  “No. My mother died before I can remember, and my father . . . he doesn’t . . . didn’t . . . he isn’t one for displays of affection either.” I frown at Lord Kinsworth, schooling my features to appear frank and aloof, just as if this conversation isn’t wounding me to the core. I cannot even remember my grandmother kissing me.

  Scorching shame brands my cheeks, and a hollow ache drums in my soul. I shake my head, unable to speak.

  “I see.” He squints at me as if such a thing is incomprehensible. His music changes timbre to a low mournful bansuri flute. “I’m sorry,” he says sadly and means it. “That’s not right, Maya. Not right at all. You should have been cossetted and hugged and . . .” He stares at me as if truly seeing me for the very first time. “Kissed.”

  What would that have been like?

  “Do you mean that?” I look up, unable to keep hope out of my voice.

  “Yes. Are you blind to your qualities? Can’t you see?”

  I should’ve been hugged and loved and—

  Suddenly, I want to know what it is to be held, to be kissed, truly kissed. I want to know with all my heart.

  He caresses my cheek with his palm. “If you will allow me . . .” His voice is as smooth as hot chocolate on a cold morning, warm and pleasing to my ears, flowing with deliciously earnest notes. “I shall be honored to teach you.”

  Honored.

  He tilts his head toward mine, waiting patiently until I raise my chin, and when I do, trembling, he lightly presses his mouth against mine. Our lips touch for one breathless lingering moment.

  “You see?” He smiles drowsily and leans closer. He means to kiss me again, and I am glad. Now I know why they put people in prison for this—it is addicting. This time he covers my mouth with his, and somehow it feels as if my lips are melting into his.

  The world around us begins to soften. The amber sky, the rooftops, the rocks, all the hard edges are disappearing. Strange music murmurs in my ears, a faint blissful chorus, and it seems to lift me, as if we are afloat in a swirling mist of sunset and bliss. He is still kissing me, and I am holding onto him to keep my balance.

  I like kissing.

  I like it very much.

  He stops, and I tip up on my toes for more.

  “Maya,” he whispers. Gathering me tight in his arms, he falls to kissing me some more.

  A Roaring River

  “A-hem.”

  That voice, that icy tone, it arrests us mid-kiss.

  Kinsworth winces and turns slowly to look down the garden path. As for myself, I hide my face in the folds of his cravat and peek out.

  Miss Stranje stands a few yards away, frowning, and tapping the watch that hangs around her neck. “Young man, your time was up four minutes ago.”

  “Is it?” He has the good grace to blush. Even in this light, I can see the red blotches climbing up his neck. “My apologies. We shall return to the drawing-room immediately.”

  “I should say so.” She waits for us, drumming the toe of her shoe against the stone path. I hasten to repair his smashed cravat and fluff up the wrappings of my sari from where he crushed me to his chest. Miss Stranje waves us forward, impatiently. “Come along!” she snaps.

  As we walk back to the house, Tromos trots up beside her. She ruffles the big wolf behind the ears but keeps walking. “You great wooly soft-heart,” she scolds. “I see I shouldn’t have counted on you to keep them at arm’s length.”

  “You mustn’t be too severe on them. Your wolves very nearly attacked me.” Lord Kinsworth pats my hand resting on his arm and winks at me.

  She sniffs. “If they had, it would’ve been no more than you deserve.”

  He laughs at that. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “I shall be more watchful in the future, my lord. You may count on it.”

  That means no more kissing. My heart sinks at the thought. “But you allow Lord Ravencross and Tess—”

  “I do nothing of the kind.” She bristles, and her posture grows even more rigid. “Aside from that, I have known young Ravencross since he was in leading strings. And he has proven himself trustworthy on several occasions.” She squints at Lord Kinsworth, shrewd-eyed as a hawk surveying her prey. “I shall be watching you, my lord.”

  “So, you said. And I believe you.” He ought to be uneasy under her scrutiny, but he isn’t. His smile is slow and easy, that same roguish I-will-win-you-over grin he always employs when he’s in a pinch.

  Our stalwart headmistress does not melt and smile in return like all the other women in his life. No, she frowns more severely and marches us at an even faster pace toward the drawing-room. Which dampens the euphoric chorus humming so contentedly inside me. Dampens, but does not extinguish it.

  “What happened to your arm?” Ben glances down at my shoulder next to his. “Earlier, I noticed you’re wearing a bandage.”

  “Oh, that.” I’d hoped my sleeves had hidden the wound well enough that it would not draw anyone’s notice. “It’s nothing. A small accident.”

  “That’s a rather large bandage, for a small accident.”

  I am spared having to answer because we have reached the doorway and Miss Stranje prods us forward. We trudge sheepishly into the crowded drawing-room.

  Mr. Sinclair chuckles. “If red faces are anything to go by, it would appear congratulations are in order.”

  Lord Kinsworth rubs the back of his neck in answer, and the red bloom on his cheeks deepens.

  Lady Jersey lifts her glass of champagne. “To the happy couple!”

  Cheers surround us. Clapping and huzzahs fill our ears. Ben edges closer to me, pressing even tighter on my hand that rests on his arm. Lord Wyatt slaps his back and calls him a “Lucky fellow.”

  It occurs to me that Lord Kinsworth has not yet actu
ally asked me to marry him, but why would he? This is all a pretense. I glance sideways, up into his face, hoping to catch a glimmer of the warmth he’d shown me earlier. I don’t expect it. I expect him to be devising witty quips and putting on a jovial show for our guests. Instead, I find him staring at me. Staring intently, as if suddenly something, most likely our engagement, troubles him.

  “Yes. Lucky,” Kinsworth murmurs, blinking, struggling to shutter his uneasiness away. He tries to laugh in the face of such feelings, laugh and run away, just as he always has before. Except, this time, no laughter comes. No jest springs to his lips. Fear is scraping and sawing away his confidence. Some minutes back, he smothered the trumpets, and now he is breaking the flutes. He is desperate to run. I hear panic thrumming inside him.

  His distress over our engagement stings my pride, but I know what I must do for him. “My lord, this is only temporary. A few short weeks.” I use a cadence so gentle it is almost a lullaby. “Soon you will be free again, very soon.”

  “Will I?” He swallows and drags in a breath as if I have pulled him to safety from a roaring river. “Will I ever be free?”

  “Yes.” Reassurance glides over my tongue like warm milk. “Yes, you will.”

  The roaring river, the thundering noise in his soul, quiets. He leans nearer and breathes in deeply as if the scent of pomegranate oil in my hair is healing. “I’m not so sure,” he whispers.

  What?

  Startled and confused, I watch as his uncle clasps Ben’s shoulder and pulls us apart. We are dragged into the arms of our friends, who enthusiastically offer us their well-wishes. I try to concentrate on their conversation but cannot stop pondering what he meant.

  Does he worry he’ll never be free of me?

  Across the room, he repeatedly glances in my direction. It is as if our kissing has thrown him off-balance somehow.

  How can that be true?

  I thought he was the experienced one.

  After all, he was the one teaching me the magic of kissing. And he did a wondrous fine job of it, too. Superb. I cannot stop smiling stupidly as I remember how lovely it felt to have his arms around me.

  Is it possible he underestimated the power of an embrace of that sort? I certainly did. It is a mystery, this kissing business. Somehow our lips seem to be connected to our hearts. Right now, even though he is clear across the room, I can feel how disconcerted he is. I see, now, that kissing entwines two souls. It weaves our inner beings together on some unseen eternal loom.

  If that is true, Lord Kinsworth may be right. I nervously twist the fabric of my veil around one finger. There may be no escape from our entanglement—not without paying a price, not without ripping apart that newly woven bond, not without the pain of loss.

  Loss.

  I am all too familiar with that particular malady. Achingly familiar. But familiarity has gifted me with an advantage. Here is what I have learned about loss—I will survive it.

  Judging by the look on his face, Lord Kinsworth is not as certain.

  We are toasted and patted on the shoulders, teased and jostled good-naturedly until Lord Harston raises his glass high and calls for our attention. Chatter lessens, and we glance in his direction. He stands before the fireplace and pastes on a broad smile. “This is as good a time as any to make another announcement.”

  A hush falls over the room, and we all turn to listen. Lord Ravencross mutters, “What announcement?”

  I wonder the same thing. Despite Lord Harston’s jovial demeanor, his inner music carries an ominous undertone. “My friends, just this afternoon our beloved Prince told me he intends to leave the heat of London and remove to his palace on the Brighton shore.” He lowers his glasses and swirls the remaining champagne. “And since Parliament adjourns next week, he plans to make the journey a day or two afterward.” He looks up and pretends to smile. “It seems he is in something of a hurry to meet with, uh, other dignitaries, and . . . friends there.”

  Brighton Palace. England’s southern coast. The perfect place to hold a clandestine meeting with Napoleon.

  More than one among us draws in a wary breath.

  Lord Harston taps the rim of his crystal, regaining our attention. “Not only that, but His Highness has invited myself, as well as Lord Kinsworth and his betrothed, Miss Barrington. We are to join him at the palace, for the . . . uh, the pleasures of the sea, and to participate in the festivities with his other guests.” He lifts his champagne as if this is marvelous news, and we all ought to raise our glasses to it.

  “To Brighton.” Lady Jersey stoically joins in the salute.

  “Oh dear,” Lady Castlereagh murmurs. “It’s so much sooner than we expected.”

  “It could be worse, my dear.” Lady De Lieven pats the shorter patroness’s arm. “At least, we know where, and, we’ll have people in attendance.” The side of her mouth quirks up, and she lifts her glass to me. “To Brighton.”

  Less than a fortnight.

  I’m not ready.

  Not ready at all. I glance around, hunting for Lord Kinsworth, wondering if he feels as uneasy as I do. Except he has moved from where he last stood. He is pushing through the other guests. He bumps Mr. Sinclair’s shoulder and skirts around Lady Jane in a great hurry to corner his uncle. “A word, my lord, if I may? In private.”

  Lord Harston looks surprised. “Well, certainly my boy, but can’t it wait?”

  “No. It can’t.” Lord Kinsworth is taller and broader than most men. That gives him the means to efficiently guide his uncle forward, but he stops beside Miss Stranje and issues a similar request.

  Miss Stranje does not look happy. “If you insist.” She bristles and suggests they might return to her study.

  What is he doing?

  He is agitated. Even from this distance and surrounded by so many people, I hear that much quite clearly. If Ben is having second thoughts about our engagement, I have to find out and put his mind at ease again. I excuse myself from Lady De Lieven and hurry across the room toward them.

  “Oh, good,” He says, and snares my hand, clasping it firmly on his arm. “This concerns you as well.”

  His strides are so lengthy he practically drags me along beside him. As soon as we are out of the foyer and two or three yards down the hall, well out of earshot of the drawing-room, I ask him, “Are you regretting the engagement, because if so—”

  “No,” he answers sharply and glances down at me. Lord Kinsworth rarely frowns, but right now, his face is pinched tighter than I have ever seen it. “Of course, not.”

  “Then what—”

  He hurriedly tugs me into the study, and Miss Stranje snaps the door shut.

  “Yes, my lord, what is it?” Her dress rustles as she spins to confront him. “What is so urgent that you obliged me to abandon our guests?”

  He stands to his full height, unintimidated by her stern expression. “It’s this assignment. It’s too dangerous.”

  She steps back as if he has surprised her. “You’re afraid? I wouldn’t have thought—”

  “No! Not me. Of course not. It’s too dangerous for her.” He glances down at me.

  My jaw nearly comes unhinged. I want to laugh. Except I’m still gaping in disbelief.

  “I see,” Miss Stranje says. “You are concerned for her safety. Commendable, but you needn’t be. Miss Barrington is well trained in the art of self-defense, and she possesses several other skills that protect her quite admirably.”

  He steps forward as if he is the headmaster calling her to task. “I know about the wound on her arm.”

  Miss Stranje spins to me. “You told him?”

  I shake my head. “Never. I wouldn’t.”

  He clicks his tongue. “No, in fact, Miss Barrington lied. I had to waggle the truth out of someone else. And before you ask, I will not betray who. To be fair, I tricked it out of him, by pretending I knew more than I did. The point is, I found out she was wounded by Lady Daneska. Isn’t she one of the people responsible for exploding a bomb meant to k
ill half of the Admiralty?”

  Miss Stranje rears up like a raven ruffing out her feathers. “Who shared these speculations with you?”

  “Me.” His uncle winces. “When I explained his assignment, it seemed a pertinent detail. Kinsworth will be at Carleton House, and as Lady Daneska is known to visit there on occasion.”

  This uproar has gone on long enough.

  I yank my hand off of Lord Kinsworth’s sleeve. “I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

  “Oh, yes? Then how is it you were stabbed while taking such perfect care of yourself?”

  “Cut. Not stabbed. And you don’t understand. It was a calculated ploy.” I press my lips together, remembering that I should breathe evenly and moderate my voice. “Fortunately for us, the ploy worked. I won her confidence. And because of it, we obtained important new information.”

  His posture softens, but his words do not. “So, you’re saying, you won this traitor’s confidence by nearly bleeding to death?”

  “Nothing as dire as that.” I try to smile as if he has comically exaggerated the matter. “It was a minor cut. You can see for yourself I am perfectly healthy.”

  “So, you say.” He looks askance at me for an overlong moment, as if he knows I am lying. “I have every intention of keeping you that way. Alive and unharmed.”

  Some young ladies might find his words endearing. Sweet. He wants to protect me. Part of me flutters and blushes at his concern. But another part, the part I depend upon for survival, rears up in alarm. His sweet words slam down around me like a wall of iron bars.

  The lioness inside me roars in rebellion.

  I have endured many things, but a cage is not one of them. Naanii treasured her own freedom too much to have ever hampered mine. And my father, he may not love me but, beyond bringing me to England, he never sought to control me. His wife tried, and when she failed, sent me away to Stranje House. Miss Stranje is a stern headmistress, exacting, but she prides herself on teaching us how to escape cages, not endure them, whether they be restrictions imposed by society or actual dungeons.