Rogue's Charade

by Kruger, Mary

  “Back in line, soldier.” Thompson’s face was red as he turned away. Who Quentin was, he neither knew nor cared, except that he was quality of some kind. Sir Hubert, now, yawning and scratching behind Quentin, was another story. He was local, and a magistrate to boot. While Thompson didn’t answer to him directly, being billeted in Rochester meant that he came under the squire’s authority. And though he had heard of the escaped killer, everything had been quiet in the area, until the arrival of the man in black. “We found nothing, sir,” he said, addressing himself to Sir Hubert.

  Sir Hubert yawned again. “Doubtless. You promised me the criminal, Heywood,” he grumbled. “Where is he?”

  “Sir.” Shea stepped forward again, stiff, poker-faced. “I did see something, sir. In that crypt over there.”

  Sir Hubert peered through the morning mist. “Upon my soul! That is the family tomb!”

  “What did you see, soldier?” Quentin’s tone was silky, his face still; he was dressed as a gentleman, and yet Sergeant Thompson, watching helpless as events were taken out of his hands, had the impression of a taut, hungry animal, coiled to spring.

  “Sir.” Shea glanced towards the sergeant, who nodded resignedly. “A head, sir. Just floating, like. It had to be a ghost.”

  “In my tomb?” Sir Hubert stomped by him into the churchyard, trampling the grass still further. “We’ve had no dealings with ghosts in my family.”

  Quentin pursed his lips. “Perhaps it wasn’t a ghost. Sir Hubert! Hold, there,” he called. “Soldier, come with me to the crypt.”

  Shea swallowed, and Thompson grimaced in sympathy. He didn’t know what was more threatening: the supposed ghost, or Heywood, with his cool smile and hard eyes. “Yes, sir,” Shea said woodenly. “This way, sir.”

  “Now where,” Quentin said conversationally, “did you see this—apparition—soldier?”

  “Inside the crypt, sir.” Shea’s face was stolid as he pointed out the mausoleum where Sir Hubert awaited them, shifting from foot to foot. “The sergeant ordered me to check it.”

  “Was the door locked?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It had to be,” Sir Hubert blustered as they reached him. “Only time we open the place is for funerals.”

  “The door was open, sir,” the sergeant put in.

  “Well, I don’t like it,” Sir Hubert fumed. “Not one bit.”

  “Hold there, sir.” Quentin laid his hand on Sir Hubert’s arm, preventing him from stepping into the enclosure around the crypt. “I see footprints.”

  “Of course there are footprints, man, these men defiled my family’s resting place!” Sir Hubert spun around to the sergeant. “You’ll answer for that.”

  “We were doing as we were bid, sir,” the sergeant said stiffly. “By you.”

  “Someone was here.” Quentin rose from his squatting position, a long green frond in his hand. “This looks distinctly like the grass from along the stream, and there is mud on the doorstep.”

  “A ghost wouldn’t drag in mud or plants, sir,” the sergeant said.

  “No.” Quentin studied the crypt. In the brightening sun it looked normal, quiet, almost serene. And to open the door would be bad luck, Thompson thought, dread shivering along his spine. “I do not fear ghosts,” Quentin said, and wrenched the door open.

  “Upon my soul!” Sir Hubert protested. “You go too far, sir!”

  “The crypt was unlocked.” Quentin’s voice was almost gentle, but Thompson wasn’t fooled. His anger showed in the set of his shoulders, in the glitter of his eyes. “And this,” he stepped inside and bent down, “never came from any ghost.”

  “A handkerchief,” Sir Hubert said dumbly, staring at the square of cloth. “Upon my soul, sir, but I don’t understand.”

  “Do you not? It was no ghost the soldier saw. No ghost that started the riot last night.” He frowned. “I lost an expensive wig in the riot, but—no matter. Woodley was here.” Quentin’s eyes glowed with dark light as he swung about, facing them all: Sir Hubert, the sergeant, the soldiers. “And we are going to find him.”

  Blythe had one clear moment of sanity, and then Simon’s lips were on hers, blotting out all else. Emotions rioted through her in a chaos of sensations: the white heat of need; the dark rasp of his stubbled face against his; the bright glory of her body coming alive, all at once. She was aware of his hand holding her head firmly against his, of his tongue ravishing her mouth; aware as well that the little sounds and whimpers she heard were coming from her, not him. “Simon,” she gasped when at last he released her mouth to brand her throat with his lips. “Simon.”

  He didn’t answer, only took her mouth with his again, tongues meeting and clashing in an almost violent mating that made her blood sing. This wasn’t like her, this passion, this need. She was quiet and prim and proper, not an actress and certainly not a wanton. Oh, but she wanted this, wanted to sear his skin with her fingertips, wanted to burn with his touch, to glory in the fire of his loving. All her life had led to this moment, all the loneliness, all her vaunted independence. There was a woman inside her she’d never known, a woman with fierce desires and needs, and he was her other half. Rogue, actor, criminal—God help her, but he made her whole.

  “Blythe.” Simon wrenched his mouth away. “Hell. We can’t.”

  She clung to him, pressing kisses on his neck. “Why not?”

  “Why not?” He put her away from him, staring at her with his hair on end and his mouth slack, and a place on his neck just beginning to turn red. She’d done that, she realized with a mixture of astonishment and delight. “Because we can’t.”

  She put her finger to the red mark on his neck; he flinched, and she let her touch trail lower, along his collarbone, down the open neck of his shirt. “Why not?” she repeated.

  “Hell. I’m a convict, Blythe. You’re a lady—”

  “Oh, no, I’m not,” she said, and looped her arm around his neck, bringing his face to hers. This was right. Maybe tomorrow she’d think differently, but she’d deal with that when it happened. “Simon, you have dragged me halfway across the country, through rivers and across fields and into theaters, for heaven’s sake! Are you going to stop debauching me now?”

  “Debauch...” He gaped down at her, and then threw his head back, laughing, making his throat muscles stand out like columns. “Only you would use that word.” His eyes were brimming with amusement, and something more, something darker, hotter. “Debauch.”

  “You once asked me why I was named Blythe.” She let her hand wander across his chest, and felt his indrawn breath as her own. “I think I am better named than I know.”

  Simon caught her hand and brought it to his mouth. “I won’t be able to stop.”

  “I’m not asking you to.” Let tomorrow take care of itself. She was tired of being prudent, tired of being sensible and proper. Never before had she allowed herself to be swept away by feelings; never before had she had feelings like this.

  Simon ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t promise you anything.”

  “I don’t expect you to.”

  “Bloody hell,” he said, and sat up, turning away.

  Well. And what was this about? She reached out to touch him. “Simon—”

  “Don’t.” He shrugged off her hand. “Or I won’t answer for the consequences.”

  “I’m not asking you to.”

  “And why not?” He rounded on her. “Do you know what you’re asking? Do you?”

  “Simon, I’m not stupid and I’m not naive—”

  “You’re as naive as a newborn babe! God.” He pounded the wooden floor with his fist. “What kind of woman are you? I took you for a good woman, not a...”

  “What?” she prompted, when he didn’t go on. “What am I?”

  “Nothing,” he muttered.

  “I think I can guess.” She sat up beside him, wrapping her arms about her knees, more puzzled than annoyed; chilled, without the heat of him surrounding her. If he so much as touched her now,
she thought she might hit him. “All my life.” She picked at some straw, cleared her throat, and then went on. “All my life I’ve been what people expected me to be. I don’t remember my mother, you know. But one of the worst things my foster mother could say to me was that I was just like her. But do you know something?” She looked up at him. “I was proud when she said that. I had to hide it, but I kept it inside me always, that I was like my real mother. She grabbed happiness when she found it. ‘Twas why she named me Blythe.” Idly she drew designs in the dust beside her. “But I learned to be what everyone else wanted me to be, and when the time came that I had to make my own way, there I was again, doing what someone else wanted. And then you came along.”

  Simon had turned to study her as she talked. “I disrupted your life.”

  “And expected me to be what you needed.” She frowned. “Except that I like being this new person, Simon. I don’t know who I am anymore, but I like it.” And she loved him.

  He hunched forward, arms on his knees. “I can’t give you anything, except disgrace. And maybe a child,” he muttered.

  Something leaped within her. “I’ve not asked for anything, Simon.” Only his love.

  “Lord, Blythe, don’t you see that only makes it worse? I have no future. Even if I did...” He turned to her. “It wouldn’t be with you, Blythe.”

  It hurt. It was no surprise and so should not have caused her pain, but it did. “Oh.”

  “I’m sorry.” Quickly he stroked his fingers down her cheek. “I do want you.”

  She gazed back at him, intent now only on hiding what earlier she had so wanted to share with him. He didn’t love her. Thank heavens he didn’t know how she felt. “Do you?”

  “More than you know. But not like this.” He got to his feet, pacing restlessly away. “Not with my life in jeopardy and a cloud over my name.” He straightened, mouth set. “And that is why I cannot run away.”

  She looked up from gathering the food that they had scattered across the blanket during their wild embrace. “Isn’t that what you are doing?”

  “No. Do you not realize where we’re near?”

  “I’ve barely traveled away from my village before.”

  “Which is?”

  “Hartley, in Kent.”

  He nodded. “Somewhat west of here.”

  “Where are we, then?”

  “On the road to Canterbury.”

  She frowned. “Are you going on a pilgrimage?”

  “Canterbury, Blythe,” he repeated. “Where Miller was murdered.”

  Blythe looked up, mouth open in astonishment. “You aren’t serious!”

  He nodded. “Indeed, I am.”

  “But if you’re known anywhere, surely ‘twill be there.”

  “I’ve plans,” he said, vaguely. “How else can I clear my name?”

  “Clear your...” She clamped her mouth shut. “You are saying you are innocent.”

  “Yes. At least, not guilty.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ve thought a great deal about this.” He laughed, mirthlessly. “For a long time I had nothing to do but think. And I reach the same conclusions every time.” He pounded a fist on his knee and rose. “But why? That is what bothers me. Why would someone want him dead? And why”—his voice was baffled—“does someone want me to pay for his death?”

  Blythe knelt up, cautious. They had never before discussed his crime. “Who was he? Miller?”

  Simon’s face tightened. “A rather unpleasant man.”

  Her heart sank. She had hoped to hear that the murdered man was a stranger to him. “So you did know him.”

  “Oh, yes. Better than I would have liked.”

  “Oh.” She looked down. “I’d heard—I understood it was his wife you knew.”

  “Bloody hell, then you’ve heard that story?”

  “Is it true?”

  “No.” He shifted his shoulders in apparent irritation. “I don’t know how that tale started.”

  “I can’t imagine,” she said, icily.

  He slanted her a look. “Don’t sound so disapproving, princess. I never claimed to be a monk.”

  Only with me, she thought, wrapping her arms around her bent knees. “Didn’t he have some reason to be angry with you?”

  “What? No. The rumor I’d seduced his wife didn’t begin until after I was arrested. No, he had no quarrel with me.” He stood for a moment, back to her, hands jammed into his pockets. “He had every reason to want me alive and well, being a moneylender.”

  Blythe’s head jerked up. “I’d not heard that!”

  “No? But ‘tis true.”

  “I thought he was a merchant.”

  “That, too. He traded with foreign countries. The Orient, in particular. But his main trade was lending money.”

  “There was a money bag found near him,” she said, pursing her lips as she tried to recall the details.

  “Aye. Filled with gold sovereigns.”

  She looked up. “Were you holding it?”

  “No. ‘Twas the knife I was caught with. The money was in my room.”

  Her breath drew in. “Then you admit it?”

  He gazed at her for a moment, so steadily that she had to look away. “I admit to being foolish enough to pick up the knife, nothing more.” He dropped to his knees beside her. “Blythe, he was dead when I found him.”

  Blythe looked down at her hands, wanting, needing, to believe him. “Then who killed him?”

  “I don’t know.” He rose again, pacing the earthern floor. “I’d think someone was trying to rob him, except the gold was still there. Blythe.” He turned to her. “This may sound mad, but I think whoever did it wanted to make sure I was blamed.”

  She frowned. This was beyond protesting his innocence. This was fantasy. “Whatever for?”

  “I don’t know.” He sat next to her, one knee cocked, the other straight. “I’ve asked myself that many a time.”

  “There’s a problem,” she pointed out. “How could this person have known you would be there at the proper time?”

  “I’d an appointment with him,” he said, after a moment.

  She stared at him. “Why?”

  “He’d lent me money. No, never mind why. He was charging such high interest, I’d never be able to pay it back, and I wanted him to lower the rate.”

  Blythe looked down at her hands. “You had reason to want him dead,” she said, softly.

  “Aye,” he said, to her surprise. “So I did. But I didn’t kill him. I swear that to you, Blythe.” He looked at her. “Do you believe I’m innocent?”

  Blythe opened her mouth, closed it again, and looked away. “I’d like to.”

  “But you don’t,” he said flatly.

  “I don’t know what to believe!” She spread her hands in exasperation. “You were found standing over a dead body with a knife in your hands.”

  “Someone else’s knife.”

  “I know you were convicted. I know you abducted me.”

  “Which you will never let me forget.”

  “It isn’t an easy thing to let go.” She paused. “But you came back for me.”

  “When?”

  “Last night, at the theater. You didn’t have to.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  She nodded. In some way that she didn’t quite understand, she had known he would come for her. “I want to believe in your innocence.”

  “But you don’t.”

  “No. Simon, I’m sorry—”

  He shied away from her touch. “Don’t.”

  “I wish there was something I could say.”

  “There’s nothing,” he said, and rose. “‘Tis early yet. We should sleep before we head out again.”

  Blythe stayed sitting. “I’m not sure I’m going with you, Simon.”

  He rounded on her. “So what will you do? Stay here and let them take you?”

  She pushed her hair away from her face. “Maybe.” Just now that seemed preferable to th
e pain of being with him. She loved him, loved him, but he didn’t feel the same. She couldn’t bear it.

  “Don’t be stupid.” He bit off the words. “Do you think I’ll let you stay to tell them where I’ve gone?”

  She lifted her chin. “Would you force me to go with you?”

  “Why not? I’ve done so before. As you’ve pointed out.”

  “So you have.” She sighed. She had little choice: facing arrest, with its notoriety and disgrace; or being with him. Both hurt. Only one drew her, a moth to the flame. “Very well. But if I have a chance to go home, then I will.”

  Simon nodded. “Best we get some sleep,” he said, and rolled himself into a blanket, facing away from her.

  Well. One would think that he was the injured party, rather than she, Blythe thought, looking at his stiff, unresponsive back. Her life had been permanently altered because of him, and her future was clouded. None of that would matter very much, though, if only he loved her. If he only loved her, she felt she could face anything. Or could have, were he an innocent man. And that she still very much doubted, no matter how much she might wish to believe otherwise.

  Heaving a rather theatrical sigh, she took up the other blanket, spread it a distance away from Simon, and wrapped herself up in it. She was growing used to living under strange conditions, but she doubted she’d sleep.

  Some time later, a sound startled her into awareness, making her sit bolt upright. Heavens, she’d slept, after all. A quick glance showed her that Simon was still asleep. Either he hadn’t heard the sound, or the events of the last weeks had caught up with her, making her fear pursuit even in her dreams. Clearly all was well, and they were safe—

  The sound came again, and this time she recognized it: a horse whickering outside, followed by footsteps. Blythe stumbled to her knees. Dear heavens. They’d been found.

  The blanket hampered her as she tried to crawl across the floor, to warn Simon. She was just about to shake his shoulder when the barn door creaked open, letting in a shaft of sunlight. Simon shot to his feet, hair on end, fists bunched. “Simon,” she gasped, rising at last.

  He grabbed her arm, dragging her behind him as the door opened more fully. From her hiding place behind his shoulder, she watched as the broad figure of a man, silhouetted in light, stepped inside. “Well,” a voice said. “It appears I’ve found the fugitive.”