After the Kiss

by Joan Johnston

  “You read my mind, Griggs. The ladies will be needing some supper, too.”

  “A private dining room will be ready and waitin’ when the birthin’s done,” Griggs assured him before leaving them alone.

  “Do you think there are any more babies inside her?” Reggie asked when Frances had finished cleaning off the second kitten.

  Marcus watched the cat’s stomach ripple. “Possibly. We will have to wait and see.”

  Nothing about the following births escaped the girls’ notice. Marcus found himself guessing at the answers to questions he knew some woman should be answering for them. But they had no mother, and were currently without a proper female companion. Griggs had retired to the other end of the stable to enjoy his mug of ale in peace, and Alastair was in London. There was no one left but him.

  Becky turned a curious face up to him. “Is that how we were born?”

  “Human babies come out of their mothers in essentially the same way,” he managed to say.

  He waited for another question, like “How do they get inside there in the first place?” But he was spared that challenge.

  At last, three more blind, mewling kittens had joined the first two in the straw, and Frances appeared to be reclining comfortably with her new family.

  “We should let Frances rest now,” he said. “Griggs has arranged for us to have dinner inside.”

  “We could not possibly leave Frances now,” Reggie said, appalled at his suggestion. “What if a dog should come around to chase her? Frances and her kittens need us more than ever to protect them.”

  “Reggie is right, Uncle Marcus,” Becky said. “We have a duty to protect those weaker than ourselves.”

  He could not argue with that,

  In the end, Marcus sent Griggs to fetch them all meat pasties and lemonade, and they had a picnic in the stall. It was no trouble for him to sleep on a bed of straw, but he was surprised that the twins insisted upon it. Warm blankets from the inn provided a coverlet, and after much shifting and arranging, the twins made a nest for themselves as comfortable as the one Frances had made for her kittens.

  He listened to their prayers—God blessed an unending litany of relatives, servants, and animals—and kissed them each good night. They snuggled together instinctively to keep warm. Their faces and hands were dirty, their dresses wrinkled, but they smiled up at him as though life could not be more perfect.

  He moved the lantern to the far side of the stall, and it was not long—he did not say “Go to sleep now” more than twice or thrice—before he heard the deep and even breathing that signaled their slumber.

  Marcus sat with his back braced against the stall, his booted feet stretched out in front of him on the straw. He worked out a crick in his shoulder and rubbed at an old wound on his thigh.

  It had been rash, maybe even reckless, he realized, to set out with two young girls and no female companion. Look what had happened. No governess would have let them get away with watching a scruffy, tattered-eared cat give birth. No governess would have allowed them to eat meat pasties in the barn, or sleep on blankets in the straw.

  Marcus smiled. He was glad he was there.

  He closed his eyes, dozing as though it were the eve of battle, listening for the slightest sound that might mean danger to those for whom he stood guard.

  He was instantly awake when the barn door creaked open, but he mistook completely where he was. This safe barn in England had become a bullet-pocked refuge in Spain, and the stealth of whoever had opened the door made him certain it was a French soldier come to kill him.

  Marcus sat perfectly still, so as not to rustle the straw, but reached for a blade he carried in his boot, ready to meet the enemy.

  Chapter 2

  At the advanced age of seventeen and a half, Miss Elizabeth Sheringham was running away from home. It was the only solution she could find to an intolerable situation. Her cousin Nigel, Earl of Ravenwood, with whom she had lived since the death of her father two years before, had made advances tonight that left no doubt as to his ignoble intentions. She was certain Nigel’s wife, Agnes, would be gravely disappointed if she knew of them.

  Eliza had broken a pottery vase on Nigel’s head in the conservatory and made her escape. Her cousin was bound to be furious when he recovered, but she would not be there to hear him ranting.

  Eliza’s greatest regret was having to leave behind her aunt, Lady Lavinia Sheringham, her fathers spinster sister. Unfortunately, Aunt Lavinia was too old to think a long gallop on horseback was a grand adventure. She would more likely complain about the discomfort and the cold.

  It was too bad. Eliza would have welcomed the company; she had a deathly fear of being alone in the dark. Aunt Lavinia was always a comfort at such times because, though she had been blind since birth, she managed to find joy and light in her perpetually dark world. Eliza had left a message for Aunt Lavinia with Cook, promising to send for her as soon as she was settled in London.

  Eliza knew she would be missed at the house party being given by the Duke and Duchess of Braddock scheduled to begin on the morrow, but that could not be helped. Her friend Charlotte, Countess of Denbigh, who had arranged the invitation for her, would understand why she had run away.

  In any case, her absence was probably for the best. Eliza could not seem to control her tongue with strangers. As a Child of Scandal, she had learned to expect unkindness. At first the thoughtless remarks and occasional downright meanness had left her in tears. She had grown a tougher hide, and learned to take the sting from such insults by turning the malicious comments back upon their author.

  People either laughed when her barbs hit home, in which case the evening would be enjoyable. Or they turned their backs on her entirely, at which point she went to work with a will, sending scathing—and remarkably well-aimed—insults at those who, without good cause, considered themselves her betters.

  Eliza was sometimes invited to a dinner or musicale merely to provide the other guests with an interesting topic of conversation. In those cases, Eliza felt obliged to give her hostess what she expected. She had sent many a matron home with the vapors and had once constrained her hostess to retire upstairs with the headache.

  Eliza did not care whether Society approved of her or not. At least, that was the appearance she gave. Beneath the tough exterior was a lonely woman who ached to be loved and accepted.

  She had thought Cousin Nigel understood her feelings. But he had seen her disdain of Society and assumed a lack of honor. After all, like father, like daughter.

  “Surely one more scandal cannot matter,” he had said, as he grabbed her and pressed his dry lips against hers.

  Eliza had experienced a nauseated panic when she caught the acrid scent of his pipe tobacco. From that moment onward, she had fallen into a black void of terror so deep it was difficult to believe even now that she was safe.

  Cousin Nigel had deserved to have a flower pot dumped on his balding pate. If it were not for the sob caught in her throat at the time, she might have laughed at the ridiculous picture he had made with a mountain of petunias growing from his head.

  Eliza quietly shoved open the stable door at the White Ball Inn, searching for the stallion the Countess of Denbigh had arranged to have boarded there for Eliza’s use.

  “I will not be riding much for the next few months,” the countess had said, “and I want Mephistopheles to be well exercised.”

  It had not taken much effort on Eliza’s part to figure out that the countess was in expectation of a happy event. Eliza was glad for Charlie. She would like to have a houseful of children herself … someday.

  But she had known since she was old enough to understand the whispers, that no eligible gentleman was likely to offer for her. They considered her as free and easy as Cousin Nigel had. All except for Nigel’s younger brother, Major Julian Sheringham. Julian had been different from the first. He had always treated her with courtesy and respect.

  Her cousin had recently returned from dut
y on the Continent and was on leave in London. She was counting on him now to rescue her from Cousin Nigel’s clutches.

  She had no doubt he would. Unlike others, Julian treated her just as he would any other young lady of quality. He had shown by his behavior toward her that the scandal surrounding her father did not matter to him. That was fortunate, because Eliza had fallen hopelessly in love with Cousin Julian when she was fifteen.

  He had come home to Ravenwood the first time after Cousin Nigel inherited the title from her grandfather wearing a dashing blue hussar’s uniform, with red cuffs and gold lace trim. He was so kind and so handsome, she could not help but admire him.

  But at fifteen, her lovely female endowments had been nothing more than wishes on her chest. Her face had been a collection of odd features—sharp cheekbones, wide-spaced, strangely golden hazel eyes, and a dash of freckles over a nose that seemed entirely too large. She had been every bit as tall as she was now, but as gangly as a newborn colt.

  She had followed Julian around the entire two weeks he stayed at Ravenwood, mute as a doorknob without the acid comments that usually sustained her conversation. He had laughingly—and lovingly, she thought—called her “Brat” and “Pest” and “Troublemaker.”

  He might as well have been calling her “Dear” and “Darling” and “Sweetheart.” She knew that at fifteen she was too young to be seriously courted. She suspected he was being careful not to offend her tender sensibilities.

  But two years had passed since then. She was seventeen—old enough to be a wife and mother. Experienced enough to converse with ease. But Julian had never returned to court her.

  Eliza had no choice except to go out and find him.

  Her plan was simple. She would disguise herself in some of Julian’s clothes, find the hotel where he was staying in London, and convince him to marry her.

  Immediately after Cousin Nigel’s attack, she had dressed in one of Julian’s lawn shirts, with one of his neck cloths done up in the precise Mathematical she had often tied for her father. She had placed her father’s gold watch in the pocket of a lavender brocade waistcoat because she could not bear to leave it behind. Rags were stuffed into the broad shoulders of Julian’s mulberry jacket to fill it out, while his buckskin breeches fit her snugly in the hips.

  Wearing Julian’s clothes, including a brand new pair of Hessians that had just been delivered to Ravenwood, and with her waist-length chestnut hair hidden under a gentleman’s hat, she hoped to be mistaken for a boy if she was spotted on the road.

  Her height would help—she stood a head above the average male—and she had bound her breasts to hide their fullness. Her voice was gravelly sounding from a childhood riding accident, and she could lower it even more if she tried. With such manly traits to aid in her disguise, how could she fail to deceive?

  Eliza breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the warm glow of light in the corner of the stable at the White Ball Inn. She had dreaded entering what she had supposed would be pitch blackness inside. It did not occur to her to wonder why a lantern should be burning in a place supposedly empty of human inhabitants.

  Mephistopheles’s head appeared over his stall at the sound of her bootsteps, and he whickered at the sight of her. Once inside the door, she dropped her cloth traveling bag, which contained several clean shirts and underthings and a dress in which to meet Julian, and headed toward the stallion.

  “Easy there, boy. We are going for a long ride,” she soothed as she approached the huge beast. “I haven’t any carrots or apples for you, but—”

  One second Eliza was reaching out a hand toward the stall, the next her back was pulled up tight against a muscular male body. An impossibly strong arm lay pressed against her throat, and the point of a cold, sharp knife actually pierced her skin beneath her ear.

  “Make a sound, and you’re dead.”

  She bit her lip, fighting the urge to scream. The warm drop of blood crawling down her neck tickled her, making her shiver. Any second she expected to feel the knife dig farther into her flesh. Her muscles tensed in anticipation of the pain.

  They stood frozen in that deadly pose for endless moments, like some awful statue.

  Eventually, despite her captor’s warning, fear loosened her tongue. “You’re plucking the wrong goose. I have nothing worth stealing,” she croaked.

  “Oh, my God,” he whispered.

  She felt the hold on her neck easing. She was afraid to move, afraid he would stab her the instant she tried to run. But this might be her only chance to win free.

  She whirled and lashed out with a balled fist, planting him a facer exactly as her father had taught her—after one too many boys had teased her—hitting as hard as she could. The villain’s head barely moved to the side at the sickening thwack of her knuckles on flesh, but a dark, horizontal streak appeared high on his cheekbone.

  She cried out in pain and cradled her bruised knuckles in her other hand. “Ow! Ow! Ow!” It felt as though she had rammed her hand into a stone wall.

  The man careened into her, his shoulder hitting her stomach and slamming her to the ground. He landed on top of her and clamped her hands fast in the dirt on either side of her head.

  She was too stunned to do more than lie there and stare up at him. Until she realized she had to breathe.

  She gasped in a lungful of air and felt her breasts surge against his chest. Which was when she realized the binding had slipped. And her hat was gone.

  His fingertips feathered lightly through the long, tangled locks that framed her face and spread out around her on the hay-littered surface. She saw the dawning realization in his eyes as he gathered a fistful of curls the rich reddish-brown of unroasted chestnuts in each hand.

  “A woman,” he muttered.

  He was off her a second later and bent down to yank her onto her feet. She knew the danger was greater now. He would think she was weak, vulnerable because she was female. He would think he could take advantage, as Cousin Nigel had.

  While he was still bent over, she lifted her knee as high and as hard as she could—another lesson from her father to be used if a boy persisted—and caught her attacker hard on the chin. That was not precisely where she had been aiming, but it worked almost as well.

  His teeth clacked together, and he went bowling over backward. Unfortunately, she heard more outrage than pain in the epithets he hurled at her.

  She looked for something to use for the coup de grâce—anything heavy to hit him on the head and knock him out before he could come after her again. A last resort, her father had said, to be used only if her life was threatened. Which surely it was.

  Before she could find a weapon, a swarm of tiny, terrifying demons, eerie ghosts in white, descended upon her. One kicked her in the knee. Another socked her in the stomach. While she was bent over with pain, yet another grabbed her hair and yanked hard enough to bring tears to her eyes.

  “Leave Uncle Marcus alone!”

  “Get out! Go away! And don’t come back!”

  She would have been glad to flee, except when she stumbled toward the door, she found it blocked by an enormous hulking figure.

  “Halt!” the shadowy figure commanded. “Stand where you are!”

  Eliza searched frantically for another avenue of escape, but saw none. It was either charge the door or be done in by the man and his demons.

  In the momentary silence caused by her indecision, she heard a child’s startled voice say, “Why, it’s only a young lady, Uncle Marcus, not a man at all!”

  “I can see that now,” he said.

  “How do you suppose she makes herself look so tall?” another childish voice asked.

  “I believe she simply grew that size,” the man replied with obvious amusement.

  Eliza stared in astonishment at the three figures who had spoken. The “demons” she had feared were merely two little girls—with identical faces—dressed in straw-laced, wrinkled white muslin.

  She bit back a sharp rebuke for the comments
about her height. The man deserved it, but the child was only curious. “I am one inch less than six feet tall,” she said to the twins. “And I may still be growing,” she added with a teasing smile, ignoring the gentleman as though he were not there.

  One twin eyed her cautiously. The other smiled back.

  The man who had ambushed her stood behind them, one hand on each of their shoulders. Despite his disheveled state, it was apparent from the cut and quality of his clothes that Eliza was facing a gentleman of some distinction. And now that she had the leisure to look at him, perhaps the most perfect male specimen she had ever seen.

  Not a single caustic comment came to mind. “Oh, dear,” she said. And blushed. Eliza was not the sort of woman who blushed. Not at an insult, surely. It would have made her too vulnerable to the gossips. This blush had resulted purely from her intense reaction to a man’s physical attractiveness. It had never happened before, and she found it somewhat disconcerting. Her reaction to him had been so very obvious.

  “Need any help, Captain?” the voice from the doorway called.

  “I believe the twins and I have everything under control, Griggs. You may go back to bed.”

  “Very well, Captain.”

  Captain. He was a soldier, like Julian. But far more handsome than Julian. Eliza killed that traitorous thought aborning. No one could be more precious to her than Julian. Besides, as she very well knew, looks did not tell the whole story about a person. Where would she be if everyone she met judged her by her looks? She had learned from Aunt Lavinia, who could not see anything at all, to take a man’s measure by what he said and did.

  Eliza took further comfort in the thought that even if this gentleman were dressed in a uniform, he could not possibly look as bang up to the mark in it as Julian did in his. After all, the Prince of Wales’s own 10th Royal Hussars were a very select group of gentlemen.

  “Why did you attack me?” she demanded when she had recovered enough composure to speak.