by Anne Stuart
“Never?”
“Not if I can help it,” she said artlessly. “You’ve been extremely lucky—you and Mr. Ramsey barely seem to notice each other. Most marriages I’ve witnessed haven’t been nearly so fortunate.”
Her companion reached over and patted her hand, covering it. “Surely that’s extreme?”
“Not in the slightest. Most women are slaves to their parents until they marry, and then they become slaves to their husbands.”
“You don’t seem enslaved by your parents.”
“That’s the problem. Both of my parents are exceedingly broad-minded. They’ve brought me up to think for myself, to be independent. They taught me I was any man’s equal. I’m worried that I might not find a suitable husband who’d agree with that.”
“You might be surprised,” Mrs. Ramsey murmured, her strong hand warming Sophie’s smaller one.
“How do you manage to keep Mr. Ramsey in line? I must confess, I find him rather frightening. He’s so tall, and forbidding, and so very cynical.”
Mrs. Ramsey shrugged. “He’s quite charming once you get to know him. Besides, I can get him to do just what I want if I go about it the right way. We rub along very well together. I don’t interfere in his life and he doesn’t interfere in mine.”
“As long as you obey certain rules of society,” Sophie said. “Rules dictated by men.”
“Actually I don’t obey any rules I don’t care to.” Her companion said carelessly, leaning back against the enclosure and stretching her astonishingly long legs out in front of her.
Sophie glanced at her. “I do envy you your height,” she said wistfully. “Perhaps I might be more self-assured if I weren’t such a little dab of a thing.”
“Believe me, Miss de Quincey, I don’t beat Ramsey into submission.”
Sophie giggled. “I didn’t imagine you did. And please, call me Sophie.”
“Only if you can me Val. After all, addressing me as Mrs. Ramsey only serves to remind both of us that I’m a man’s chattel.”
“Never that,” Sophie said. She screwed up all her courage. “I do admire you enormously. You’re different from any woman I’ve ever met. I do so wish to be your friend.”
Mrs. Ramsey had the most shimmering gray eyes. She looked down at Sophie, and for a moment Sophie couldn’t read their expression. There was something both tender and faintly predatory in the glance, something that warmed and alarmed her. “You’re a very sweet child,” Mrs. Ramsey said in her deep voice. “But perhaps a bit too trusting. You know nothing about me or my husband. Who knows, we might be something quite different from who we say we are.”
Sophie pulled herself upright. “I’m not as naive as you think. I imagine you have some dark secrets in your life—you’ve clearly led a life that’s a great deal more adventurous than most. I hope I can be your confidante.”
“Share my secrets?” A faintly mocking smile played around Mrs. Ramsey’s wide mouth, and for a moment she looked startlingly like her sardonic husband. “Sometimes secrets are better left alone.”
Sophie wasn’t quite sure whether or not she was being rebuffed. “Have I offended?” she asked miserably.
The mockery left her companion, and the large hand that still covered hers tightened. “Never, dear child,” she said. “You only remind me how very jaded I am.”
“Not jaded,” Sophie said loyally. “Just more experienced. I wish you would give me the benefit of your wisdom.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I wish to know everything. Everything you care to impart,” she amended.
“It would shock you.”
“I’m difficult to shock. My parents have seen to it that I have a very liberal upbringing. I’ve been allowed to read anything I cared to.”
“I see.” Mrs. Ramsey’s voice was a deep purr, rather like a jungle beast’s. “And what about more, shall we say, practical matters? Have you learned about what goes on between men and women?”
Again Sophie felt that strange tickling inside her, half pleasure, half alarm. “Of course,” she said.
“Really?”
“My mother explained it in scientific detail. She was very clinical.”
“Having met your formidable mother, I have no doubt whatsoever that she was. It’s astonishing to me you were ever conceived.”
Sophie giggled. “It’s true Mama is a bit … intellectual,” she conceded. “But then, I’ve been taught that one should always use one’s brain to the best of one’s ability.”
“To be sure,” Mrs. Ramsey agreed. “But you should also learn to use your body as well.”
“But the body is simply for animalistic urges.”
“Nonsense. You live in your body. It behooves you to take care of it and give it pleasure. Unless you’re interested in becoming a nun. I know all sorts of repressive orders where you can wear sackcloth and ashes and beat yourself with a little whip all day long.”
“You’re making that up.”
“Not at all. I haven’t seen it for myself, but my brother has told me about them.”
“I didn’t realize you had a brother.”
Mrs. Ramsey looked momentarily disturbed. “Did I fail to mention it? Dear Phelan spends most of his time abroad. He has an absolute longing for exotic climates—I’m afraid he finds England sadly tame.”
“Phelan. That’s an unusual name. You must find it confusing to have a brother named Phelan and a husband named Philip.”
“Not particularly,” she said. “If I have to refer to my husband by name, I usually make do with ‘Mr. Ramsey.’ Or, failing that, ‘you there.’ It seems to suffice.”
“I’d like to meet your brother. Perhaps I might change my mind about men.”
“You wouldn’t like Phelan,” Mrs. Ramsey said sharply. “But you might like my other brother. Valerian.”
“Two brothers? You are lucky. I always wished I had siblings,” Sophie said enviously.
“You might change your mind if you were as blessed as I was,” her companion said wryly. “Particularly with a twin.”
“Valerian’s your twin? How wonderful! Are you identical?”
“Not entirely,” she drawled.
Sophie blushed. “How absurd of me. Of course you—That is, I mean …” she floundered.
Mrs. Ramsey shook her head. “I see how it is, my dear. For all your prodigious learning, the practical part of your education has been neglected. I see I shall have to do something about it.”
“Would you?” Sophie asked, her eyes alight with anticipation.
“It would be my pleasure,” Mrs. Ramsey replied. And once more Sophie was reminded of the wolf.
Juliette was alone in the modest kitchen of Sutter’s Head when her rescuer walked in. It was the first time she’d seen him in the full light of day, even such a rainy day as the one they were enjoying. If he’d been overwhelming before in the darkness, with his towering height, his sardonic face, his silvery eyes that saw far too much, in the daylight his subtle threat wasn’t even slightly diminished. And all Juliette’s temporary equanimity vanished.
She’d felt peaceful for the first time in months, sitting at the well-scrubbed kitchen table, devouring Dulcie’s delicious food. Even the attic over the Fowl and Feathers had been merely a way station, a place to hide and to catch her breath.
This place felt different. It felt like home.
And yet there was nothing familiar about it. It was an old country cottage perched at the tip of the headland that jutted out into the sea, a huge, rambling old place, in benign disrepair, kept in reasonable shape by a pair of middle-aged servants who looked after their master and mistress with possessive pride. While Dulcie had been kindness personified, sharing the need of all cooks to fatten Juliette up, it was obvious her first concern was to her employers, with the kind of loyalty that went generations deep.
There was something oddly appealing about those kinds of roots. While she relished her freedom, she wished she had more of it, wishe
d she were back by the Aegean Sea or the River Nile, exploring some new and exciting place. There were times when she wished she could taste just a moment of security. Of connection. Of belonging.
But she did belong. To Mark-David Lemur. And the memory sent waves of remembered disgust through her, just as Philip Ramsey strolled into the kitchen.
Masters of the house usually didn’t enter the kitchens, particularly in search of a new servant. They ordered them to present themselves. But then, Mr. Ramsey was different from most men Juliette had met. He had a certain elegance in his tall, lean body that suggested he’d be at home in the Court of St. James’s or in a cow byre. She liked that about him, despite her wariness.
“Dulcie said you’re going to eat us out of house and home,” he said, pulling out a chair and dropping down opposite her.
Suddenly she remembered she ought to scramble to her feet in the presence of her employer. It was rather late for that, so she stayed where she was, one slender hand still cradled around a thick, chipped mug of the best coffee she’d tasted outside Italy.
“I’ll work for my keep,” she said.
“No need to be defensive, lad,” he said, a sardonic gleam in his cool gray eyes. “I imagine we can afford to feed you. The question is, what are we going to do with you now that we’ve got you?”
“I’m good with horses,” she said.
“Hannigan’s more than capable of taking care of the stable,” he said.
“I can carry wood, water, any kind of rough work. I’m very strong.”
Her new employer looked frankly skeptical. “A stiff breeze would blow you over.”
“Then why did you bring me here if you don’t think I’m up to the work?” she demanded, uneasiness bringing forth her defensiveness.
“Maybe I share Pinworth’s interest in you?” he suggested blandly.
For a moment she almost believed him. There was something about the way he looked at her, something she couldn’t quite define. But then she dismissed it. “No,” she said. “You’re not that kind of man.”
“Perhaps not,” he allowed. “Perhaps I just wanted to save you from such a sordid fate.” He reached over and picked up her slender hand, surveying it with seemingly idle curiosity, and the absent caress of his thumb sent shock waves through her body.
She jumped up, pushing herself away from the table, away from him. “I’ve told you, I can take care of myself,” she said fiercely, wishing she believed it. “I’m quite capable of defending myself. I don’t need anyone’s pity or charity. It won’t take me long to walk back to town. I can find other work if Mowbray has no use for me.”
She made it halfway to the kitchen door. She wasn’t expecting it, otherwise she would have had more of a fighting chance. Or so she told herself.
He caught her wrist, spinning her around and pushing her up against the rough stucco wall, holding her there. His hands were as strong as steel, and there was absolutely no way she could escape.
“I don’t think so, young Julian,” he murmured in her ear. “You’re not going anywhere, at least for the time being. You’re no more self-sufficient than a day-old kitten. No one’s going to harm you here—you won’t need to defend yourself.”
“No one’s going to harm me?” she countered in a muffled voice. “Then what are you doing?”
“Not hurting you in the slightest.”
She realized it was true. Immobilized as she was, helpless as she was, she was in no pain at all.
He released her then, stepping back, and when she turned to look up at him, she hoped to read something in his eyes. But they were cool and enigmatic as always. “What do you want from me?” she asked, her voice husky.
He raised his hand for a moment, and she flinched, afraid he might touch her. He dropped his arm. “The damnable thing about it, young Julian,” he murmured, “is that I haven’t the faintest idea. When I do, I promise to inform you.”
Juliette looked up into the unreadable face of the man who towered over her, and she shivered. For some cowardly reason, she simply didn’t want to know the answer to her question. She could only hope that by the time he decided, she’d be long gone.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was a beautiful day on the south coast of England. Even Phelan Romney had to admit it. Much as he disliked the provincial feel of his native land, on a warm summer day such as this one, with the fresh salt breeze from the ocean and the brightness of the sun overhead, he could almost pretend he was back in the south of Italy, or Egypt, or Greece, where there were no rules, no strict social order, no responsibilities. At least, not for a willing vagabond.
Not that he was paying much attention to any of those things nowadays, he reminded himself wryly as he strode down the narrow path to Dead Man’s Cove. Being on the run from a murder definitely had its advantages. At least he didn’t have to worry about matchmaking mamas or the problems of Lord Harry’s far-flung estates. He didn’t even have to waste his time brooding about his mother’s instability. He much preferred to have his concerns on more elemental levels. Such as how to preserve his half brother from his mother’s bloody but misguided vengeance. How to keep Valerian from rushing back to Yorkshire in a hotheaded fury, determined to ferret out the truth and clear his name, only to find himself at the end of a gallows rope.
And what to do about the slender, game little creature struggling along behind him, carrying a picnic basket, his sketching supplies, and a bottle of claret he had no intention of drinking.
He’d planned to carry the heavier things, but young Julian was having none of it. Her damned stubbornness would be her undoing, and he longed to tell her just that. She was pale and sweating beneath her heavy jacket, but he doubted he could get her to remove it. Much as he longed to do so. He wanted to see whether she had breasts beneath that loose white shirt.
Not that it mattered, he reminded himself sternly. He hadn’t brought her into his house to seduce her. God only knew why he’d done so. As a whim. A capricious gesture, one more masquerader joining the family of deceivers. Or perhaps it was simply to alleviate his god-awful boredom, which surpassed his brother’s. At least Val had the sly pleasure of plying his wiles on the unwitting folk of Hampton Regis. Phelan didn’t even have that distraction.
He hadn’t stayed in one place for so long since he’d reached his majority, at least not in England. Almost four weeks in Hampton Regis, with nothing for distraction except his sketches. And there was bugger-all to sketch around here. The flowers were pale and civilized compared with tropical blooms, the ocean a dull gray compared with the bright azure of the Mediterranean. To top it off, he hadn’t had a woman since he’d left Greece. He had never been a man to allow his desires to overwhelm him, but right now a willing female body would provide a welcome distraction indeed.
Julian Smith, or whatever she called herself, wasn’t the answer. She was unwilling to admit she was even female—she’d hardly be likely to strip off her disguise in order to alleviate his boredom. Phelan simply had to make do with fantasies, wondering if she was flat-chested and thick-waisted beneath the loose-fitting boys’ clothes. He was horribly afraid that she wasn’t.
He glanced back at her. She was huffing and puffing, shifting her heavy parcels back and forth, and he took pity on her. “You’re carrying too much, lad,” he said, letting the term slide mockingly off his tongue.
She glared at him, with that singular lack of subservience that would have unmasked her sooner or later if she’d stayed on at the inn. “I’m fine,” she said, hoisting her bundles up higher. “Sir,” she added with only a faint shimmer of contempt.
He considered taking the parcels from her. He suspected that might engender a tug-of-war, and while he would appreciate the chance to put his hands on her, he decided the time was far from opportune. “Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug. “It isn’t much farther.”
“It better not be,” she muttered under her breath, mistakenly assuming he wouldn’t hear.
He smiled to himself. He
had unnaturally sharp hearing, a leftover from his days in Arabia, where the faintest sound might make a difference between life and death, and there was very little he missed.
She wasn’t happy about being dragged away from the house and loaded down with paraphernalia. He knew that by the disgruntled little sniffs she emitted every now and then, by the occasional growl, by the way her ill-shod feet slipped on the narrow, pebble-strewn path down to the beach. She probably wouldn’t be feeling any more cheerful once they reached their remote destination.
The path grew sharply steeper, and he heard her intake of breath as she stumbled once more. He slowed his pace deliberately, wondering if she was going to take a headlong plunge toward the sea.
“Where are we going?” she finally demanded in what she probably considered a subservient voice. It simply sounded irritable to Phelan’s ears.
“To a very remote, peaceful spot of seaside. It’s called Dead Man’s Cove,” Phelan said, slowing his pace still further in deference to the faintly breathless sound of her voice.
“Charming,” she replied, once more forgetting her place.
He smiled to himself again. “This part of the coast used to be populated by wreckers. You’ve heard of them, no doubt. Most of the English coast has been plagued with their sort at one time or another. When times are bad, people do what they must to survive, and to feed their children.”
“Even if it includes luring a ship onto the rocks and drowning other people’s children to line their own pockets?” Julian said sharply.
“Even so. I doubt anyone particularly wanted to commit cold-blooded murder. They were interested in the cargo of the ship, not the lives of the passengers.” He allowed himself to stop and glance back at her, slightly higher up on the steeply descending path.
“And did they save those passengers’ lives once they’d lured their ships to their doom?” she asked, clutching the heavy picnic basket in hands that looked too delicate for such rough work.