Walking slowly down the road, surrounded by country air and sunlight, I thought of Madame Olga and the ambition she had inspired in me. The once renowned Russian ballerina had come to the academy to give lectures on the dance. She was ancient, a tiny woman with wrinkled skin and enormous black eyes that seemed to burn. Her hair was sleeked back, fastened in a tight bun on the back of her neck, and she was swathed in sables. She wore a gigantic emerald on one finger of her scrawny hand, the huge stone glittering with greenish-blue fires. A quarter of a century before, she had been the toast of Europe, and one heard that kings had vied for her favors, that the Czar had given her a fortune in jewels, that an English duke had committed suicide when she refused to return his affections.
I was dazzled, and so nervous I could hardly contain myself when, after the lectures, she watched us go through our paces. She scowled disdainfully all the while, making acid comments to poor Miss Brown, who had worked so hard to get us into shape. Later on, though, Madame Olga admitted that at least one of us showed promise. “The little girl with the raven hair and dark blue eyes, the one with the high cheekbones, she’s not so bad,” Madame confided, and when Miss Brown relayed the comment to me I was ecstatic. I wrote to my aunt at once, begging to be allowed to leave the academy and rush off to London.
At the time, I was only sixteen, and Aunt Meg was naturally too sensible to allow any such rash action. I must finish my training at the academy first, she informed me. I could continue my dancing classes there, along with all my other studies, and if when I graduated I still wanted to go to London, well, we would see about it. I studied harder than ever, learning everything Miss Brown could teach me. I also took private lessons from a retired Italian ballet master who had a shabby studio in Bath near the academy. Giovanni, who had known Madame Olga during her heyday, wrote to her about me, recommending me in the highest terms, just this month. And she had written back, agreeing to take me on as a student in September.
I was unbelievably happy. Madame Olga was the best teacher in all England. She took only a select number of students each year, and after studying with her almost all of them were placed in important companies. I was going to be one of those students. I was going to be a famous ballerina as Madame Olga had been. I would become the toast of Europe and drink champagne, and men would fall in love with me. The future was aglow with glorious possibilities, and life seemed magical. I seemed to walk on air, so great was my elation, and then I received the urgent message from Doctor Reed. I arrived back in Cornwall only hours before Aunt Meg passed away.
A light gust of wind caused my skirt to flap and sent my long hair fluttering. My magical future had vanished in one great swoop, and I was faced with stark reality. Things couldn’t have been worse, yet for some reason I refused to worry. I was strong. I would survive. Somehow or other. I had six more weeks before Chapman would foreclose and all Aunt Meg’s goods would be sold at auction. Stubbornly, I clung to the conviction that something would happen during those weeks. What I felt couldn’t be defined as optimism. It was, rather, a steely refusal to give up. I wasn’t ready to admit defeat, not yet.
I suddenly had the feeling I was being watched as I passed one of the haystacks. I paused, vaguely disturbed, for the sensation was powerful, impossible to mistake. I could almost feel the eyes boring into my back. Another gust of wind lifted my skirts. I turned. Jamie Burns and Billy Stone were moving away from the haystack, both grinning wide grins. Jamie waved and leaped over the low stone wall. Billy called my name. I watched them saunter toward me, and my heart skipped several beats. They had known I would be coming this way. They had come ahead of me, had hidden themselves behind the haystack. Every instinct told me to flee, to run down the road as fast as I could, but I knew that would be pointless. They would overtake me in moments. I must be very, very calm. That was my only hope. They sauntered across the road, arrogant in their youth and superior strength.
“Well, well, well,” Jamie drawled. “What ’ave we ’ere?”
“Look at ’er,” Billy said. “Ain’t she somethin’? Never seen such a ripe ’un in all my born days.”
I stood very still, trying to control my breathing, telling myself I mustn’t panic. My pulses were leaping, and my knees seemed to go weak. I held myself erect through sheer willpower and stared at them with my chin held high, eyes cool and haughty.
“Always wanted to ’ave me a gypsy wench,” Billy remarked. “I ’ear they’re real special, all fire an’ fight. Reckon I’ll find out this very afternoon.”
Jamie’s cold gray eyes glittered. His lips twisted into a leer. Shoving a lock of unruly brown hair from his brow, he stepped nearer. There was hatred in his eyes, hatred and lust that seemed to smoulder. Billy came up beside him, slinging a powerful arm around his friend’s shoulders. My heart was pounding. My throat felt dry. Waves of panic threatened to sweep over me. I held them back, willing myself not to show the least sign of fear.
“What’d they teach ya in that swell school you been to, Mary Ellen?” Jamie asked.
“They taught me not to be intimidated by oafs like you.”
My voice was surprisingly calm. Another gust of wind swept across the flat, open land. My skirts billowed. My hair blew across my cheek. I pushed it back, holding myself straight and distant.
“I reckon they musta fed you real good at that school, Mary Ellen,” Jamie said. “You’re all growed up.” He nodded. “Yeah, you’re all growed up. Real ripe an’ juicy.”
The panic was very near the surface now, and I was trembling inside. I felt so weak, so vulnerable. They were both as strong as oxen, hard with muscle, and I would be powerless against them. Rape was jolly sport for youths like these, any nubile lass their natural prey. How many maidens had they forcibly deflowered? Like animals bursting with energy and appetite, they thought of nothing but release. Right and wrong failed to exist for them. It would be useless to plead, useless to fight.
“Soon as I saw you prancin’ down th’ street so ’igh an’ mighty, I knew what I was gonna do,” Jamie snarled.
He moved another step nearer, eyes glittering, his face tight, a mask of hostility. He seemed to seethe with it. I drew back, my composure slipping fast. My heart was beating louder and louder, so loud I felt sure they both could hear. I moved back another step, almost stumbling. Billy chuckled and shoved Jamie aside with rough amiability.
“You’re scarin’ ’er,” he said. “I keep tellin’ ya, Jamie, you gotta gentle ’em a little, gotta feel ’em up and get ’em in th’ mood. ’Ere, I’ll show ya ’ow it’s done.”
“Don’t touch me,” I said hoarsely.
Billy shook his head. Dark blond waves spilled over his brow, and the almost-pretty face seemed to glow with pleasure. The blue eyes were merry and lascivious, and he smiled a tender, taunting smile.
“Come on now, wench,” he said. His voice was husky and seductive. “Don’tcha wanna be friendly? Me an’ Jamie, we’re a couple o’ swell fellows, really know ’ow to make a wench ’appy. Ask Daisy Clark. Ask Mollie Jeffers. Ask any uv th’ girls. They’re all just pantin’ to ’ave us come a-courtin’.”
That taunting smile widened, pink lips curling up at both corners, and the eyes were aglow with anticipation. As he seized my arms and pulled me toward him, everything seemed to whirl in a blazing haze of fear and fury. I struggled violently, trying to pull away, and he laughed a rumbling laugh and held my arms even tighter, his fingers biting into my flesh. I cried out and kicked him, slamming my toe against his shin with all the force I could muster. There was a mighty yell, but it wasn’t Billy. It was Jamie. Jamie yelled, and Billy’s eyes widened in dismay.
Neither of us had heard the horse and carriage, that carriage that had seemed so tiny when I had seen it in the distance. It was standing but a few yards away, and Jamie was struggling with a man in a dark blue suit. They seemed to be hugging each other, rocking to and fro, and then they broke apart and Jamie staggered backwards and shook his head as though to clear it. Then he charged
at the stranger like an enraged bull. The stranger stepped to one side and, smiling a tight smile, stuck his foot out to send Jamie crashing to the ground with a terrible thud.
Billy was still dismayed, unable to believe what he saw. It had happened in a matter of seconds, and he was still gripping my arms. His face tightened now, and his eyes flashed with rage. He gave me a forceful shove that sent me reeling backwards. I stumbled and fell, landing with shattering impact that knocked the breath out of me. My head began to spin, and black wings seemed to flutter all around, closing in on me, blocking out the light. Several moments passed before I was aware once again of the stomping, shuffling, thudding noises around me. Palms flat on the ground, I managed to sit up. Everything was shimmering, out of focus, and my head was still spinning.
Jamie was on the ground on the other side of the road, groaning, and Billy and the stranger stood a few feet apart, the stranger cool and apparently unconcerned, Billy panting, his chest heaving. A moment passed and then Billy hurled himself toward the stranger and swung his arm in a wide arc, his fist flying toward the stranger’s jaw. The stranger smiled and made a smooth half turn, and as the fist flew past his shoulder he seized Billy’s wrist in midair and gave it a wicked twist, swinging Billy around in front of him and thrusting his arm up between his shoulder blades.
Billy yelled in anguish, and the stranger thrust his arm up even higher and gave a mighty push. Billy stumbled forward, tottering, and finally fell to his knees. Jamie moaned and climbed to his feet, rubbing his jaw, staring at the stranger with glazed eyes. The stranger stood there with his fists resting lightly on his thighs, a half smile on his lips. He waited, daring Jamie to make an aggressive move. Jamie shook his head and staggered back a few steps, clearly unsure of himself, and then he turned and moved hurriedly back down the road toward the village. Scrambling to his feet, Billy rushed after his friend. The man in the dark blue suit smiled, watching them depart. They were almost out of sight before he finally turned his attention to me.
He stepped across the road, reached down, and took my hand to help me to my feet. He was still cool and unconcerned, showing not the least sign of exertion. There was a glint of amusement in those dark brown eyes. Awry half smile played on his lips.
“Brence Stephens,” he said. “At your service.”
And that was the beginning.
III
He was very tall, with the lean, muscular build of an athlete, all supple grace and strength. His navy blue suit was superbly tailored, the trousers snug, the jacket emphasizing broad shoulders and a slender waist. He wore a maroon and white striped waistcoat, his maroon silk stock neat, unruffled by the fight. His black knee boots were highly glossed. He had a deep tan, and his hair was jet black, rich and abundant. There was a tautness about his cheekbones, the skin stretched tight. His mouth was wide, the lower lip full and smooth and shell pink, undeniably sensual.
“Are you all right?” he inquired.
I nodded, brushing dust from my skirt.
“Lucky I happened along when I did,” he said.
His voice was deep and melodious with an appealing huskiness. Despite his gentleness with me, I sensed that he was accustomed to giving orders, accustomed to having them obeyed. There was a certain hardness about him that suggested a military background. He had clearly enjoyed the fight that had sent both strapping youths running with little or no effort on his part, yet he was unquestionably well bred. He would be as much at ease in an elegant drawing room as on a raging battlefield, always in command of the situation. He was without question the handsomest man I had ever seen, that strong virile beauty strangely augmented by the patina of hardness.
“I should have taken my horsewhip to those two,” he remarked. “Ruffians like that shouldn’t be allowed to roam free.”
Having regained my composure, I pushed a lock of hair from my cheek and looked at Brence Stephens. The unpleasant encounter with Jamie and Billy might never have happened.
“No harm was done, Mr. Stephens.”
He lifted one smooth, finely arched brow, registering surprise at my accent. Obviously, he’d taken me for some country wench, and my cultivated voice made him look at me with new interest. A familiar assessment glowed in his eyes; he found me intriguing, and he found me desirable, too. That was quite plain.
“I must say, you seem terribly calm about the whole thing,” he said. “Most young women would be hysterical.”
“I find hysterics quite unattractive.”
“I was rather hoping you’d throw yourself into my arms, sobbing uncontrollably.”
“Indeed?”
“Then I’d be able to comfort you. I’d enjoy that.”
He spoke lightly, teasing with a smile on his lips, and it was impossible to take offense, yet I was on guard just the same. I had never met a man so utterly attractive. His features might have been chiseled by a master sculptor. He might have materialized from some schoolgirl’s dream, and that made me uneasy. Feeling terribly young, terribly inexperienced, and disoriented by my reaction to him, I sought refuge in a cool, haughty manner that he seemed to find amusing.
“I’m at a disadvantage,” he said. “You know my name. I don’t know yours.”
“I’m Mary Ellen Lawrence.”
“Mary Ellen,” he said.
He made it sound like music. He looked at me with dark brown eyes that seemed so wise, so knowing, and my disorientation grew. My cool manner didn’t deceive him at all. I sensed that he knew exactly what I was feeling and why, even if I was unsure about it myself. Why should I have this pleasurable glow inside and this tremulous fear, both at the same time? I wanted to reach up and touch that full pink mouth with my fingertips, but I wanted to run away, too, before it was too late.
“I’ll drive you back to the village,” he said.
“I don’t live in the village.”
“No? Where do you live?”
“Graystone Manor,” I replied.
“Graystone Manor? I’m afraid I don’t know the place. This is my first visit to Cornwall, you see. I’m staying with my cousin, Lady Andover. She and her husband live in the next county. Perhaps you know them?”
“I know of them.”
“I wanted to see something of the countryside. That’s why I’m so far afield. Beth, Lady Andover, spends every afternoon playing cards with her cronies, and Freddie seems to devote twenty-four hours a day to his gun collection. I wanted to get out, get some fresh air. I borrowed this rig. It’s lucky for you I did.”
“I—I suppose I should thank you.”
“You should,” he agreed. “It isn’t really necessary, though. I love a good fight. Not that those two ruffians offered a real challenge.”
“You handled yourself extremely well.”
“I’ve had plenty of practice. In India.”
“You’re a soldier?”
“I was. That’s behind me now.”
A slight frown creased his brow, and his lips lifted at one corner in a show of distaste. Military life had obviously palled for him. I sensed a certain restlessness in him and a steely determination to succeed which fascinated me. I also had a vague, disturbing feeling that was almost like a premonition of danger. It was as though I had come face to face with my fate, and my instincts were warning me to flee.
“I—I’d better get back,” I said.
“I’ll drive you.”
“That isn’t necessary. I’ll walk.”
“You’ll ride,” he told me.
His voice was pleasant, yet his tone made it clear that he would brook no argument. Touching my elbow, he led me over to the carriage and helped me up onto the upholstered seat. He swung up beside me with athletic grace. As he gathered up the reins, I was acutely aware of his nearness. The carriage was a light open rig, designed for intimacy, the seat quite small. I could smell the clean male smell of him—it was heady and rather upsetting.
“A mile or so back I passed a large gray house surrounded by overgrown gardens,” he said.
“Is that Graystone Manor?”
I nodded. Brence Stephens clicked the reins and turned the carriage around, his strong, capable hands applying just the right amount of pressure on the reins. In moments we were heading back down the road. The horse moved at a leisurely pace, its glossy coat gleaming dark, tail and mane rippling like silk. Seagulls circled against the pearl-gray sky, crying their shrill cries, and dazzling sunlight bathed the open land. I could see the ocean beyond the edge of the cliffs, a surging blue-gray expanse that melted into a misty steel and gold horizon.
Neither of us spoke. The man beside me seemed oblivious of my presence. Lost in thought, he might have been alone in the carriage. I studied his profile, noticing the stern set of his jaw, the full curve of his mouth. His cheeks were lean, with faint hollows beneath those taut cheekbones, and his rich black hair made a striking contrast with his evenly tanned complexion. He would have acquired that tan in India, I thought. I had the feeling that he had just recently returned to England.
Several moments passed in silence broken only by the steady clop of horse hooves on the road and the cry of the gulls. Brence Stephens finally sighed and gazed at the open land with critical eyes.
“Interesting place,” he remarked.
“You don’t like Cornwall?”
“I’ve been here a week, and I’ve rarely been so bored. There’s not all that much to do, and Beth and Freddie aren’t the most stimulating company. I felt obligated to visit, for Beth’s my only living relative, and she begged me to come. I had some time on my hands, so—here I am.”
“You said you’re no longer with the military.”
“I resigned my commission. Military life can be extremely limiting. One can go just so far, climb just so high. I’m going into the diplomatic service. It was arranged by … uh … a friend of mine before I left India. In a few weeks I’ll be leaving for Germany as aide to the English ambassador of a tiny state you’ve probably never heard of. It’s an insignificant post, but it’s a beginning.”
Dare to Love Page 2