by Anne Stuart
“It’s not that I dislike it,” she said earnestly. “Indeed, for some it is a ‘demi-paradise, a scepter’d isle.’ I just don’t feel at home here.”
“A boy who knows his Shakespeare,” Ramsey said. “Astonishing. Did you pick that up from your visit with Sarita?”
She met his gaze with commendable boldness. “Since you knew her well enough to sketch that picture, I imagine you know the answer to that. She’s not one to waste much time on intellectual conversation.”
He responded with a shout of laughter. “True enough. But her physical communication is beyond compare.”
She could feel the involuntary blush rise to her face, and could only hope the remnants of her exposure to the sun would disguise her reaction. “I wouldn’t know,” she said stiffly, detesting the idea of the tall man with the leanly elegant body wrapped in Sarita’s plump, talented arms.
“I thought you and your friend enjoyed her favors one night,” he said.
Hell and damnation, the man was tenacious. She considered brazening it out, then dismissed the notion. He could start asking detailed questions, ones for which she had no answers.
“I lied,” she said.
“I know you did, my boy. I just wonder what else you’re lying about.”
“Not a bloomin’ thing,” she protested, summoning all her earnestness.
“Really? I suppose I’ll have to take you at your word,” he said pleasantly enough. “For now,” he added.
Juliette held herself very still, watching him from across the small stretch of sand. “If you don’t trust me …” she began, affronted.
“Not in the least. But then, I trust no one. Except for Val, of course. I might offer you a bit of advice, Julian—a helpful hint or two if you want to go on in this world.”
Juliette controlled her very strong desire to tell him to stuff it. “I’d be honored.”
“You might try to remember to keep your accents straight,” he said.
She stared at him, making no effort to disguise her hostility. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said frostily.
He laughed, rising to his full, overpowering height and starting toward her across the narrow spit of sand. “I’m sure you don’t,” he mocked. “Maybe I’ll have to explain in detail.”
He reached for her, his long arms stretched out, and Juliette very calmly wondered whether she was going to have to swim to safety.
Instead, he took the basket, moving away from her without touching her. It was relief, not disappointment, that swept over her, making her almost dizzy. She watched him stroll back to the sunny spot by the rock and sink down. He patted the sand beside him invitingly. “Come have some lunch, my boy.”
And Juliette decided there and then that she would leave Hampton Regis at the first opportunity and take her chances in one of the larger ports. She was beginning to have the very lowering suspicion that Philip Ramsey might be a great deal more dangerous than Mark-David Lemur himself.
At least with Lemur, her feelings were uncomplicated. She hated him, pure and simple.
With Philip Ramsey, her feelings were a great deal less clear. And right now she didn’t have room for uncertainty in her life.
She would run. First chance she got. Before she found she wanted to stay.
CHAPTER FIVE
Phelan had never known a creature like her. Granted, women dressing as boys were not part of his general acquaintance, but he’d seen a great many things during his travels, and yet no one came close to the girl who called herself Julian Smith.
Her eyes, for one thing. They weren’t the calculatedly bewitching, kohl-accented eyes of a professional seducer like Sarita. They weren’t the demure, shyly flirtatious ones of the proper young ladies paraded in front of him whenever he held still long enough for the matchmakers to catch wind of him. And they weren’t the cool, disinterested gaze of the women he’d known who’d been far more involved with their lovers or with other passions in their lives, and had none to spare for him.
Her eyes were alive with emotions: wariness, hostility, defensiveness, boldness. She watched him when she didn’t think he was aware of it, and he recognized the unwilling fascination in her warm brown gaze, the rampant curiosity mixed with a healthy fear.
She was making her way through a goodly portion of the food Dulcie had packed, and he watched her surreptitiously. He’d seldom seen women eat as much, and according to Hannigan, she’d put away a similar amount at her previous meals. He wondered idly whether she was pregnant.
It would explain a great deal. She could be the daughter of the bourgeoisie, seduced by some lecher and thrown out of the house by a stern father. Or perhaps she’d run before she could be ejected.
But he didn’t think so. There was a certain purity in her curious brown gaze. He wanted to satisfy that curiosity. For all the unconventional aspect of her current life, he was convinced she was an innocent. Or perhaps not innocent in the way proper young English ladies were—anyone who recognized the legendary Sarita knew far more about matters of the flesh than many women of her class learned in their entire lifetimes. And he had no interest in whether she still possessed her virginity. As far as he was concerned, chastity in a female was a greatly overrated commodity—an inconvenience to be disposed of as swiftly as possible. He wasn’t possessed of any romantic illusions about being the first one.
But she was emotionally untouched, of that he was fairly certain. Virginal in a way that was more complete than Valerian’s beloved Sophie. Julian Smith’s innocence went deeper than mere flesh. There was a certain childlike quality about her that she tried to fight, and only made stronger. What in God’s name had made her embark on this ridiculous masquerade? What in God’s name made her think she could get away with it?
“It’s actually hot,” she said in her husky voice, pushing her brown curls away from her slender neck.
He turned his gaze out to sea. He’d never been aroused by the nape of a woman’s neck before, but apparently there was a first time for anything. “I suppose even England gets hot occasionally,” he said, tossing an apple core into the bushes. “Why don’t you go swimming?” he suggested, waiting to see her reaction.
She was getting used to him. She cocked her head to one side, considering it. “I might,” she said, and he knew she had no intention of stripping off her disguising clothes to do any such thing. “Though I expect the water’s too cold.”
“Not for such a stalwart little thing as yourself.”
“Why don’t you join me?” she countered.
Obviously he hadn’t managed to cow her. He should have found that knowledge annoying. Instead, he found it faintly exhilarating. “I’ll consider it. You strip off your clothes and go first.”
To his surprise she rose, graceful as always, and reached for the bone buttons at her throat. She undid first one, then a second, exposing a small portion of her skin. It was as golden as the rest of her skin, the result of whatever time she’d spent away from England, and he wondered how far that pale golden color extended. And how far she was going to carry her bluff.
He stretched out in the sand. “Go ahead,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll watch to make certain you don’t drown.”
She didn’t even hesitate, damn her. She walked straight to the edge of the sea, her narrow back to him, and a moment later the white shirt descended to her shoulders. Long enough for him to stare at the delicious shape of her upper spine, before she yanked the shirt back up again and stepped away from the incoming tide. By the time she turned back to face him, the shirt was carefully fastened most of the way to her neck, and he was so damned hard he had to put his sketch pad across his lap to disguise his condition.
“It’s too cold,” she said, obviously feeling triumphant that she’d managed to fool him. Little did she know that no boy had ever had such beautiful, delicate shoulders.
He surged to his feet, grimacing in discomfort. “I’m going for a walk,” he said. “Wait here for me.”
&
nbsp; “Aren’t you going to swim?” she asked innocently.
He almost snarled. On the one hand, the icy British water would take care of his pressing problem. On the other, one look at his body unclothed and she’d think he was as dedicated a pervert as Sir Neville Pinworth. If she was brave enough to look.
He was almost tempted to do it, just to pay her back. He could think of a lot more pleasant ways to teach her a lesson about teasing the male of the species, but he’d already decided now wasn’t the time. Hadn’t he?
“I’ll be back,” he said, walking away from her before she noticed his interesting condition. The sand was hot beneath his bare feet, the sun was blazing overhead, and the ghostly wreck of the doomed ship cast a dark shadow across the beach. It suited his mood perfectly.
Juliette dropped down to the ground, well pleased with herself. She’d managed to wipe out any possible doubts, of that she was certain. If by any chance he suspected she might be female, she had now put those suspicions to rest. She was just as glad he hadn’t taken her up on her suggestion, however. She didn’t want to see him strip off his clothes and dive into the water. She found his body too disturbing fully dressed.
It was hot. She would have been more than willing to cool off in the icy Atlantic waters if she hadn’t had a witness. As it was, she would let the exhaustion of the past few weeks take over, let the hot sun bake into her bones, warming her for the first time since she’d been back in this shadowed land. She lay back in the sand, feeling the hot grains through the thin cotton of her shirt, and she stretched, letting her toes dig into the ground, reaching her arms out over her head, blessedly alone and unobserved.
She felt oddly, femininely sensual, despite her trousers and her short-cropped hair. Languishing there in the bright afternoon sun, she felt like a sleek, contented cat: graceful, self-absorbed, and slightly wicked. It was a good thing her new employer had decided to make himself scarce. If he saw her stretching out on the ground, he’d probably decide she was even odder than he already suspected.
She closed her eyes and watched the colors and patterns the sunlight played against her lids. She smelled the sea, the earth, the distant drift of roses on the air. And then, content, she thought about the events that had brought her to this time and place.
She could see it happening all over again. Mark-David Lemur, his soft white hand holding hers, forcing the wedding ring down over her finger, his grip hot and damp and painful. She’d been too numb with grief over Black Jack’s death to think clearly. The fever had come upon him so quickly, turning his vibrant, robust body into a skeletal frame, leaving him only enough strength for a dying request. She was to marry his good friend Lemur and travel back to England with him.
She’d done so, of course. How could she deny her beloved father anything, particularly his final request? Indeed, for the first week it had made little difference. She’d spent the time packing up all her father’s belongings, a long and varied lifetime filtering down into a few trunks and boxes.
It wasn’t until they were aboard the ship that was to take them to England that she discovered she had made a very grave mistake. Mark-David’s feelings for her were far from avuncular, and far from affectionate. His notion of a long-delayed wedding night left his bride bruised, debased, and degraded. And still a virgin.
He’d raged at her, blaming her for his inability to complete his acts. He’d demanded her assistance, something she’d been too angry and too ignorant to provide. And then he’d hurt her, deliberately, taking pleasure in administering the pain.
The trip to England had been endless. For days on end she would see no one, locked in the small, stuffy cabin. And then Mark-David would come to her again. And once again fail.
There was no escape from a ship at sea, except over the side, and Juliette wasn’t ready to do that. Her father had taught her that cowardice was the greatest sin of all, and she wouldn’t take the easy way out. She lowered her hateful glances, spoke in a soft, pleasant voice, and bided her time.
It had come soon enough. They’d been in London a scant three days, and Lemur was planning to take her out to Chichester, to the dark and dank old house that had been in the MacGowan family for centuries. Black Jack had always said it was the house that had driven him to foreign climes, that and the bloody English weather.
Juliette had planned well. She’d managed to trade the diamond stickpin that had belonged to her father for a set of boy’s clothes. She had no access to most of the famous MacGowan diamonds, but Mark-David had insisted she wear the earbobs to the opera that night, and he’d forgotten to retrieve them. They were her hedge against total disaster.
She had no foolish doubts that anyone would help her. She was Lemur’s wife, his chattel. Her money and possessions now belonged to him, as did her body and soul. Her mind and heart she could still call her own, and she was unwilling to deed her body over to him any longer. Chopping off her long dark hair, she’d dressed in the clothes she’d bought, pulled on the too-large shoes, and taken off into the predawn light.
There was always the possibility that Lemur might let her go. He had what he wanted most—control of the money her father had left her. For all her practicality, Juliette had little idea as to whether it was a fortune or a competence, and she didn’t care. It had brought Mark-David Lemur down upon her head, and for that she cursed it. Besides, since it was no longer her own, the amount involved hardly mattered.
But it wouldn’t do to underestimate Lemur. He was a greedy man, an insatiable man, one who wouldn’t relinquish what was his, no matter how worthless he considered it to be. And he had unfinished business with her.
A stray shiver swept over her body as she reclined in the sand. Sooner or later he would have killed her, she knew that with an instinct both irrational and absolutely certain. Each time he came to her, his rage grew, and the look in his pale eyes had bordered on murderous. If he found her, after she’d run, then there’d be no hope for her at all.
But he wouldn’t find her. He wouldn’t comb the tiny seaside villages, looking for his runaway bride. And he’d never think that the new serving lad out at Sutter’s Head had any connection with Juliette MacGowan. Juliette MacGowan Lemur, she corrected herself truthfully, with a hateful shudder.
Better not to think about it, brood on it. Better to revel in the warmth of the sun baking into her bones, ridding them of a month-old chill that she’d been afraid would never leave her.
Philip Ramsey’s gaze was another source of heat. She wasn’t sure why; there was none of the wet-eyed, slack-jawed lust she recognized in Lemur’s pale face. But there was a warmth, an intensity that burned her hotter than the sun, and like a moth drawn to a flame, she wanted to drift closer.
What if she’d married a man like Ramsey? What if he’d been the one touching her body, forcing her to do degrading things? Would she have fought so hard?
Though he didn’t strike her as the sort who wouldn’t enjoy the more natural forms of mating. And even some of Lemur’s odd desires might not seem so odd if practiced by someone of Ramsey’s attractions.
She put her hands up to her cheeks, wondering if she was getting feverish in the hot sun. What a bizarre, indecent thought! She never wanted a man to touch her again, particularly not in that way. She certainly didn’t want someone with Philip Ramsey’s hard, beautiful hands and thin, sensual mouth touching her.
But she could dream of the perfect lover. Someone gentle, sweet, undemanding, someone to protect and cherish her. Someone to slay the dragons and keep her safe.
There was only one problem with knight-errants. They kept their damsels safe behind a locked wall. They’d slay the dragons, all right, but then keep her chained to the life they decreed. Perhaps she might even prefer the fiery death a dragon might provide. But was Philip Ramsey a knight-errant or a dragon?
It didn’t matter. She wanted nothing from him but his money. And a safe place to hide before she could book passage away from this cold green land. This demi-hell, this England.<
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She must have drifted off to sleep. The dreams were vague, shifting, erotic, soft as a sea breeze, damp as the rough surf. She couldn’t remember details, didn’t even recognize them. All she knew was the warmth and nervy frustration that filtered through her body as she arched against the hand that slid over her cheek, under her tumbled mop of hair, and she turned her face into that hand, nuzzling against it, her lips soft on the callused palm, tasting the sea-salt taste of him.
And then her eyes flew open, to meet her companion’s ironic gaze, and she jerked away, slamming her head against the outcropping of rock and letting out an anguished howl.
He sat back on his heels, watching her. His shirt was unfastened, exposing his chest, and she saw with utter fascination that he had hair. Dark hair, not too much. She wondered what it would feel like beneath her fingers. Beneath her mouth.
“I was trying to wake you gently,” he said, his cool silver eyes seeing too much. “You looked as if you were having such a pleasant dream.”
“I don’t remember it,” she said, edging away from him. It was only half a lie. She didn’t remember all of it. She just knew it had something to do with his mouth.
“Pity,” he murmured. “You look quite flushed. Do you want to change your mind about swimming?”
She put her hand to her throat, pulling her shirt together. “Not me, sir,” she said, remembering his stricture about keeping her accents straight. “You go ahead if you like.”
“Generous of you,” he said, and his smile held more amusement than mockery. It was a devastatingly attractive smile, and for a moment Juliette simply stared at him, enchanted.
And then she pushed herself to her feet. She must have hit her head too hard on the rock, to be thinking such thoughts about a member of that class of people she considered to be her direst enemy. Man.
“It’s time to get back,” he said abruptly, moving away from her. “The climb up the path is going to be worse than the descent. If I were you, I’d dispense with those ill-fitting shoes until we reach the top. I don’t fancy having you land on me.”