The Indigo Blade

by Linda Jones

  So she climbed quietly to the third floor.

  Dalton Archer, butler by day and Indigo Blade by night? Was it possible? The very idea gave her a thrill and a surge of pride. She had recognized all along that he was different from every other man she'd ever known. Brave and strong, with a quiet intelligence and an honorable dignity.

  In spite of her loyalist leanings, she was fascinated with the shadowy figure of the Indigo Blade, as was all of Charles Town. Who wouldn't be enthralled by such a courageous man?

  She wasn't sure which chamber was Dalton's, though she was sure she'd recognize his possessions when she saw them. She understood Dalton better than anyone else she'd ever known, anticipated his every action. How he moved, how he was likely to react, when he would smile, when his blue eyes would twinkle. She read it all so well.

  Very carefully, she opened the first door at the top of the stairs. It swung open to reveal a small but very finely furnished chamber, complete with a four-poster bed, an expensive rug, even a table and chair. Maximillian certainly provided well for his servants! The servants’ rooms at the plantation were plain, serviceable units, with narrow cots and bare floors. The slaves’ quarters were even worse. But this was as nice as her own chamber below.

  It was not Dalton's room, though, but Beck's. There was an apron thrown across the back of a mahogany armchair. She stepped closer to the desk to look at the single sheet of paper there, and found a list of meals for the week. Nothing sinister about that.

  She left the chamber as quietly as she'd entered it, and went to the next room.

  This was most definitely not Dalton's room. There were a pair of nasty boots on the floor by yet another fine bed, and a few stray bits of straw on the expensive rug. Since Fletcher lived in a room at the back of the stables and rarely visited the house, this had to be Lewis Turner's room.

  She didn't take the time to search any further, but closed the door and went to the third chamber.

  Mary knew, even before spying the neatly folded livery on the chest at the end of the bed, that this was Dalton's room. She could feel him here, sense his presence as she slipped into the chamber and closed the door. A smile crossed her face as she went to the bed and ran her hands over the thick cover. He slept here, when he wasn't with her. He dreamed in this bed; perhaps he even dreamed of her.

  There was no time to lose herself in romantic and warming thoughts. She was here with a purpose. Mary went to the desk and opened the top drawer. A pistol was the only object there. That wasn't proof of anything, though she doubted many butlers concealed arms in their rooms.

  There was nothing on the top of the desk, and so she turned to the polished chest. If she were the Indigo Blade, she thought as she knelt before the chest, this is where she'd hide any incriminating evidence. She lifted the livery, holding the clothing near her nose to inhale and absorb Dalton's scent, the familiar smell that filled her nostrils and made her want another of those long, sweet kisses.

  She placed the clothing on the floor and opened the chest, and before her eyes was the proof she looked for.

  A gray wig, a tattered coat, and a scruffy pair of pants were at the top of the pile. One of his infamous disguises. She lifted the items from the chest to explore further, and found what could only be called irrefutable confirmation that her lover was the Indigo Blade.

  Knives, like the one tattooed on his thigh, were sheathed in leather and arranged in a neat row. The grips were wooden and washed in blue—indigo ink perhaps—and each knife had the image of the indigo plant carved into its handle.

  She reached out and touched one, feathering her fingers over the leather and wood, slipping one and then another from its sheath to glimpse the sharpened metal. The blades of the knives she continued to study, one after another, were varied in length and in shape. Some blades curved, some were straight. One blade was short and fat, another long and thin. They all fascinated her, for a moment.

  Surprisingly, she wasn't angry that Dalton hadn't confided in her. He had to be careful. He couldn't trust anyone.

  Mary found that she wanted, most desperately, for Dalton to trust her enough to tell her who he was and what he did. She had done nothing to earn that trust, nothing but love him. But she was closer to Dalton than she'd ever been to anyone, and if he could confide in her, if he could share his life with her, she would be truly content.

  She made certain the knives were exactly as she'd, found them, that the disguise was replaced so that Dalton would never know that someone had searched his trunk. She placed the livery on top of the closed chest and backed away from the evidence, a smile on her face that refused to fade.

  Max hitched his horse to a post near the rear door of William Seton's house. All was dark, black, and ominous—the house, the grounds, his heart most of all.

  Why would his wife request a meeting with the Indigo Blade here? After their last encounter she was taking quite a chance, asking to meet the bounder in the privacy of her uncle's house. He could think of no good reason for this subterfuge, nothing he could bear to contemplate for long, at least.

  The rear door swung in easily, opening into Seton's study. This was a house much simpler in design than his own, square rooms and straight lines, plain and simple furniture placed sparsely here and there. He had no problem avoiding the few obstacles in the study, even in the dark.

  Once he exited the study, the stairway loomed before him. He could see a soft hint of candlelight from above, just enough to tell him that Penelope waited.

  She'd “retired” early this evening, heading for her bedchamber directly after supper. What had she done, slipped quietly through one of the many doors or windows and walked to her uncle's house? Of course she had. It wasn't far, and getting herself a horse from the stables would have aroused too much suspicion.

  And his lovely wife didn't want to arouse any suspicions, certainly.

  He climbed the stairs slowly, silently, the light from above a beacon that guided him. The dark wig and long bulky coat were in place, and if he were seen from a distance the disguise would suffice. But if Penelope saw his face in candlelight, she'd know the truth.

  He didn't care.

  The light came from a room at the end of the hallway. The door was ajar, and light spilled warmly onto a bare pine floor. Penelope was waiting.

  Max moved silently to the door and pushed it open with a gloved hand. Penelope stood near the window, her back presented to him. She was wearing her dark green cape, the hood up to cover her hair, the hem brushing the floor so that the draping lightweight wool was all he saw of her. His heart dropped to his knees.

  He didn't think she could have heard him, but she spoke, startling him.

  "You came."

  "Did you think I wouldn't?” He stepped into the chamber cautiously, quietly.

  "I didn't know.” She turned then, slowly, cautiously, and Max prepared himself for the confrontation of a lifetime.

  But Penelope was prepared for the secretive Indigo Blade. She had wrapped her yellow sash, the one she'd hung from her balcony to signal him, around her eyes so that she was effectively blinded. She took a tentative step toward him, one cautious hand lifted before her, feeling for a bedpost she found with two steps.

  Gripping the post with one hand, she pushed the hood back with the other. Her dark hair was loose, waving like silk to disappear beneath the wool.

  "I'm here,” he whispered. “What do you want?"

  Penelope smiled warmly, and his heart lurched. “After last night, surely you can guess."

  "No."

  Penelope allowed her hand to fall from the bedpost, and she took a step forward. “Speak again,” she said, a hand fluttering blindly at the air before her, “so I can find you."

  "Mrs. Broderick,” he said gruffly.

  "Penelope,” she corrected, taking a small step.

  "Penelope.” It was enough. Her hand found his chest, and she planted herself before him. Fingers spread, palm against his chest, she used him to orient herself
, as she'd used the bedpost.

  "Take me with you,” she whispered. “For a few days, for a fortnight ... forever."

  His worst fears were unfolding before his very eyes. Was she so anxious to escape him? “That's impossible."

  "Last night you seemed to think it was very possible. You asked me to join you.” Her hands rested comfortably at his chest, and her fingers moved ever so slightly across the linen of his shirt. “Surely you haven't changed your mind in the one day that has passed.” Her face was lifted to him, a beautiful face soft and innocent in the candlelight. The sash covered her eyes, but her lips were turned up to him invitingly. “Don't you find me at all attractive?"

  "Of course I do, but ... but as you said last night, you're a married woman.” How far would she go? God in heaven, she couldn't do this.

  Her smile faded. “I'm a married woman whose husband does not love her."

  How could Penelope doubt that he loved her? Max cursed himself silently as he pondered that foolish question. He'd done everything possible to prove to her and to himself that he didn't. “You can't be sure..."

  "I don't want to talk about him,” she murmured hoarsely. “I want to talk about us. Do you feel it as I do? The energy in the air that surrounds us. The affection that makes my heart beat so fast I fear it will burst through my chest. I tried to deny it, but last night after I ran from you, I lay in my bed unable to sleep. I was so very lonely, and I wished often through the night that you were with me. I wished, too, that I was not a coward, afraid to take what I want most of all."

  Max swallowed—hard. “Mrs. Broderick, this is inappropriate...” he began primly.

  One of the hands that had been resting on his chest moved slowly downward, to settle at his waist. “I don't even know your name,” she said, ignoring his protest. “I suppose I could simply call you my darling.” Her smile came blooming back. “I like that, my darling."

  "Penelope...” The hand at his chest rose slowly to find his lips, to brush warm fingers across his mouth in a curious gesture. Would she recognize him now? It would serve her right, to get the shock of a lifetime! But she didn't seem to recognize him, even as she brushed those gentle fingers across his jaw and explored the coarse hair of his wig.

  "Tell me you don't want me."

  "I don't ... I don't want you,” he said hoarsely.

  Without restraint or pause, the hand at his waist slipped down to cover his rigid manhood, to stroke the hard and painfully erect length beneath the coarse wool breeches.

  "You lie, my darling.” She voiced the accusation softly, coming up on her toes to bring her mouth to his.

  She kissed him not with innocence, but with a wicked tongue that delved and thrust and tasted as she continued to stroke him.

  He didn't know what game this was, but he was suddenly willing to play along. His body demanded it, while a portion of his brain reasoned that participating in her scheme would show Penelope good and well where teasing like this got her.

  With a sigh of resignation, he grabbed Penelope and kissed her back, hard and demanding, with unrestrained passion that made his lovely and treacherous wife gasp. And then moan. And then melt. She accepted the assault so warmly, so damned easily.

  "Wait,” she said, breaking the kiss and taking her mouth and her hands from his body.

  Max smiled. She needed a good scare. What was she thinking, to invite a stranger to meet with her this way? A stranger who had already made his intentions more than clear. When she pleaded her mistake, he'd grab her and kiss her again, maybe do a little delving of his own beneath her skirt, for good measure.

  But Penelope didn't protest. She unhooked the clasps of her cloak, dropping it to the floor, revealing a simple high waist gown and hair that flowed like a dark river over her shoulders and down her back.

  And then, with trembling fingers, she began to unfasten the tiny buttons at her bodice, to lay aside the cotton to reveal the swell of her breasts and lacy chemise beneath. He watched wordlessly as she peeled the sleeves and bodice away, as she stepped from the dress to leave herself in nothing more than petticoat and chemise and the yellow sash that covered her faithless eyes.

  "You don't know what you're doing,” he finally said.

  "I do."

  "Your husband..."

  "Doesn't love me,” she finished quickly. “Why do you continue to mention my husband? He lied to me on countless occasions, he rejected me again and again. Do I owe a man like that my unbending devotion?"

  "Perhaps he has his reasons,” Max said as Penelope reached up to push the shoulders of his jacket so that the garment fell to the floor.

  "Are you married?” she asked, apparently unconcerned with what the answer might be.

  "Yes,” he answered, wondering what she would do. She stopped for a moment and then proceeded, blindly working the belt and buttons at his waist, tugging at his plain linen shirt as she slowly and adeptly began to undress him.

  "Do you love her?” With the belt and buttons at his waist loosened, she slipped her hand into his trousers and found the hardened length of his manhood, gripped it with steady, brazen fingers.

  "Very much,” he replied.

  Her hand stroked and teased, driving him to the brink of madness. “Do you ever tell her of your feelings?"

  It was becoming difficult to breathe—and even more difficult not to toss his wife on the bed and bury himself inside her. “Once,” he admitted. “Long ago:"

  Penelope pressed her face against his chest and smiled, so that he could not see her reaction. She should have told Maximillian by now that she was well aware of his identity, but she rather enjoyed the incredulity in his voice, the confusion for a man who she knew now was rarely, if ever, befuddled.

  And she had to admit this was—in a very wicked way—exciting. Her body tingled, her blood rushed hot and fast through her veins, and she wanted Maximillian as she'd never wanted him before.

  She felt the moment he surrendered, felt it in his entire body as he gave himself over to her. Felt it in the hands at her clothing, easy competent hands that whisked away her chemise and her petticoat, gentle hands that stroked her skin. His hands settled over her breasts, and her nipples pebbled against his palm.

  She ached for his touch, at her breasts and her mouth, between her legs. As if he knew what she wanted, what she needed, he answered her body's demands. He kissed her passionately and moaned softly. His fingers teased her nipples, flicking softly over sensitive tips and sending bursts of tingling energy through her entire body.

  And then his fingers delved between her legs, touching her, easily and then hard, stroking until she was ready to come apart in his hands.

  Maximillian wouldn't allow that to happen, but pulled away just as she was about to find completion.

  "Not yet,” he whispered, lifting Penelope to carry her the two short steps to the bed. There he laid her easily on the mattress and gave her one quick kiss. He took her shoes off and dropped them to the floor, and then he rolled a stocking down, moving so slowly she was tempted to reach down and help him.

  But as he removed the stocking he kissed the skin that was revealed, her thigh, her knee, her calf. His mouth found her breasts, tasting one and then the other, before he repeated the gesture with the other stocking. Kissing, teasing, stroking.

  She heard his boots hit the floor, heard the quick rustle of clothing, and then he was above her. Bare chest to bare chest, his legs covering hers, his mouth devouring her once again.

  She wanted him inside her, needed this joining, craved it with such intensity she could barely breathe, could barely think of anything else.

  But not yet. Not now.

  "Wait,” she whispered hoarsely as he pressed his manhood against her, as he tensed and prepared to thrust inside her.

  "Now you have second thoughts?” he said harshly. “For pity's sake, woman..."

  "You didn't ask me,” she said.

  "I didn't ask you what?” She could hear the impatience in his voice, the
ragged rhythm of his breath.

  "If I love my husband."

  He was very still above her. “I thought your actions made that very clear."

  "Ask me,” she demanded.

  He hesitated for a long moment, and the body poised above hers was motionless as he complied. “Do you love your husband, Mrs. Broderick?"

  "Yes,” she whispered. “With all my heart and soul. With everything I am, I love my husband.” She reached up and grabbed the coarse wig, sliding it up and off his head so she could bury her hands in his own fine hair. “I love you, Maximillian."

  He removed the sash that covered her eyes, whipped it away so she could see his face. Candlelight flickered over his features, the harsh mouth and chameleon eyes, the firm jaw and patrician nose.

  "You knew,” he said, with such intense relief in his voice that Penelope felt a moment's remorse for her trickery.

  She threaded her fingers through his golden hair. “Of course I knew. Faith, my darling, I will never love or want another man."

  He kissed her then, a passionate and absorbing kiss, and pushed slowly and steadily to fill her. She tightened and relaxed around him, her body adjusting quickly to his possession. Ripples of pleasure radiated from deep inside her body, drove her to rock against his hips as he moved, to reach for more.

  The pleasure began to build to an incredible level, to carry her away on waves of fierce sensation.

  "Open your eyes,” he demanded, and she did so without question. “Look at me, and know who loves you."

  Eyes locked with Maximillian's, her completion came as his did, endless waves of response so intense she cried out with a throaty moan.

  He laid his head beside hers, protected her body with his own hovering gently above, barely touching his chest to hers.

  "You have sufficiently repaid me for any wrong I might have done you in the past,” he said softly into her ear.

  Penelope grinned and slipped her arms around his neck. “I'm not so sure..."