by Lois Greiman
He ignored her question, though in truth he had wondered the same himself. “There’s blood on your gown,” he said instead.
“Oh!” she gasped, looking down.
“But it’s not yours.”
“What?”
“You’ve not been wounded.”
“How do you know?”
“Have you?”
“Well I…” She touched her arm where the sleeve had been severed, but the edges of the fabric were clean. “The blood must be poor young Mr. Shellum’s then.”
He shook his head. Perhaps it was the military training that made him certain. Or maybe his own memories of world-shattering pain gave him some insight into the situation, for even in the darkness he could tell she was unhurt. Likewise, he could see that Shellum bore no serious wounds, other than his stupidly self-inflicted inebriation. “He was not bleeding either,” he informed her.
She blinked at him, almost angry. “Well, then it must be from the thugs,” she deduced. “When my hero—”
“Your hero?” He tried to keep the dubious tone from his voice, but it was no simple task. The lad looked as dangerous as a barnacle.
A friendly mist had begun to fall.
She scowled. “My hero…” she said, emphasizing the words as she nodded toward the snoring sot. “When he saved me he must have wounded the thugs, who subsequently got blood on my frock when they grabbed me.”
“They grabbed you?” The thought disturbed him, awakened something in him that he had thought might well have died, might have been killed in some distant battle he could barely recall. So many dead, so many wounded. Friends, comrades, rivals. Little more than lads fresh from their mothers’ arms. The memory sent an aching throb through his right thigh.
Silence slipped between them, soft and elongated, then: “I am sorry,” she said.
He brought himself back to the moment at hand. A moment of peace. An instant of beauty. “For what?” he asked.
Her expression was thoughtful, her tone the same. “The war.”
He narrowed his eyes. Who was she? What did she know of him? And was she as enigmatic as she seemed, or was it just the moonlight? “May I ask your name?” he said.
“I am Lady Lanshire, but you may call me Elegance if you like.”
“Elegance?” He could not quite help but smile.
She raised a brow at him. “Or Ella, if you’re the lazy sort.”
“Lady Lanshire,” he said, and sketched a bow. “How did you know I was in the war?”
She smiled a little. “Merry May is a friend of mine.”
He narrowed his eyes, watching her. Aye, she was a bonny thing, a glimmer of beauty in the moonlit shadows, but there was more to her than eagerly met the eye. There was an intellect, a graceful pattern of thought and speech that intrigued and enlightened.
“She is quite enamored with tall men with handsome physiques and stately faces. Indeed, she often feels the need to point them out to me,” she explained.
He thought about that for an instant, then gave her a shallow nod. “Firstly, my thanks. I believe that was a compliment. Secondly, you are most probably not entirely to blame for the war.”
Her face was solemn, her eyes entrancing, and when she spoke, her voice was singsong. “For things like that, you know, must be, after a famous victory.”
He couldn’t help but be surprised both by her lyrical tone and the verse she chose. “You read Southey.”
“Well…” She shrugged and gave him a sidelong glance through her lashes. “I cannot spend all my time chasing inebriated young gentlemen into dark gardens.”
Her eyes sparkled, as verdant as the first leaves of spring in the overhead light. In some way they reminded him of his sister’s, though he could not have said why. Sarah had been very young when he had last seen her. Too young to exhibit this kind of depth, for there was wisdom beneath Lady Lanshire’s laughter. And perhaps pain beneath that. But maybe Sarah had learned wisdom too, in the long years since his exodus. He hoped now, belatedly perhaps, that she had not learned of pain. But what did he know of her really? He had been gone too long. Had just recently learned of her death, in fact.
“So you were giving chase,” he said.
“Aren’t we all? In one way or another?”
“Perhaps. But most of us are not chasing him,” he said, and tilted his head toward the peacefully snoozing Shellum.
“Why ever not?” she asked.
He thought about that, the inconsistencies, the oddities. “I can think of several reasons,” he said, and raised a hand toward a nearby bench. She hesitated for an instant, then, flowing regally in that direction, took a seat with a graceful sweep of her skirt. He sat beside her, easing out his right leg, willing away the pain.
“Name one reason,” she challenged.
“Well…” He considered how best to phrase his words for a moment, watching her. She refused to look away, but met his gaze full on as if she were entirely unafraid. Entirely nonplussed. Who was she? And what was she hiding? Had she possibly encountered the thugs alone? Might she have sent them running? But no. She was tall, not stout; intelligent, but not foolhardy. “A woman of your quality seems unlikely to have to chase any man.”
The night went silent for a moment, filled with the kind of thoughtful quiet that only a mist-shrouded garden can grant. “Firstly, thank you,” she said. “I believe that was a compliment, and secondly…” Her lips quirked up into an intriguing bow. “Perhaps I am quite desperate.”
He watched her face, bright-eyed, animated, mesmerizing. “I would rather doubt it.”
“Then you would be mistaken,” she said, but her expression was as serene as Sunday.
“Desperate, are you?”
“Quite.”
“For…”
She shrugged. “A man, of course.”
He watched her. She possessed a supple grace that could neither be taught nor practiced. “For what purpose exactly?”
Her eyes were laughing again. She didn’t bother to lower them, to look away, to act coy. “The usual, I suspect.”
Her words sent a trill of warm arousal through him, and that in itself was near miraculous, for he had not been entirely certain he would ever be aroused again. Not since Grand Port. The battle had been ugly. The pain had been unimaginable. And the ship’s surgeon, when he could be convinced to set aside his rum, had seemed undisturbed when he’d informed Drake that he would never walk again, much less sire a child. “Might the usual entail saddling mounts and hoisting heavy loads?” he asked. “Or something more intimate?”
“Heavy loads? Oh heavens no,” she said, and laughed. Her narrow hands were curled demurely in her lap. “I already have a man for that sort of thing.”
“Do you?”
“Yes indeed. His name is Winslow. A fine fellow. Built like an ox.”
“I see. Then I shall have to assume we speak of something more personal.”
“Personal?” She canted her head, seeming to consider not only his words, but his nuances. “I suppose one might say as much.”
Desire coursed through him. Amazing, really. He was still surprised to find himself alive, much less…alive. “Does it involve sharing a bed?”
Her mouth slanted up provocatively. “If you’re unimaginative.”
He stared at her a moment, then laughed, feeling life flow through him like a swelling tide. “In that case, my lady, I would like to offer my services.”
“You?” She seemed surprised. He wondered vaguely if he should be insulted.
“Why not?”
“Because you’d never do.”
He sat back, thinking, then nodded his head toward the besotted oaf. “But he would?”
“Perfectly.”
“Might I ask why?”
She was watching him closely, face scrunched a little as if in deep thought. “You don’t look the type to become inebriated at all.”
“You’re looking for a sot?”
“Well…” She sat back, still
watching. “Not necessarily someone who will be unconscious every minute of the day, but someone who will not become…overly involved.”
“With…”
From the house, laughter roared. Shellum snorted and rolled onto his back, but Drake barely noticed. The lady’s face was a study of emotions. A picture of intelligent intensity.
“Me,” she said.
“You don’t want him to be overly involved with you.”
“That is correct.”
“Shall I assume you’ve been married before?”
She laughed. “An astute guess.”
“And it did not go well?”
“Perhaps it could have been better.”
“And you’re bitter.”
“No. No,” she said, almost seeming surprised to find it was true. “Simply wise enough to learn from my mistakes.”
“And marriage is a mistake.”
She shrugged.
“While sharing a bed—”
“If you recall, you were the one who mentioned a bed.”
He narrowed his eyes, thinking of his past encounters, which had been, by the by, lamentably few. “It seems so much more comfortable than the alternatives.”
“See there.” She shrugged. “Yet another reason you would never do.”
“You despise comfort?”
“I despise tedium. And I’ve been widowed for a host of years.”
He almost laughed, but she seemed so sincere. “I doubt you’re much beyond a score and two even now.”
She cocked her head, eyes gleaming. “I didn’t take you for the flattering sort, Sir Drake.”
“Generally I am not, but I’m hoping you haven’t entirely given up on the idea of a bed.”
Her laugh was like warm rum, intoxicating and smooth.
“Well, I am flattered, but I’m afraid—”
“I rather doubt that.”
She looked at him straight on. “What do you doubt?”
“That you’re flattered…” He paused, watching her, mesmerized. “Or afraid.”
Her smile was a strange, earthy magic, silvered by mist, shadowed by darkness.
“You’re wrong,” she said, and suddenly she seemed almost serious. Almost honest. “I am both, on quite a regular basis.”
“But not tonight.”
“One,” she said, “but not the other.”
“And it is my task to decipher the mystery of which is which?”
“Not at all,” she countered. “I am hardly mysterious.”
“You jest.”
“My good sir,” she said, “have I not admitted that I came here to seduce the very man who lays inebriated at our feet?”
“That you did.”
“A man that, I admit, I’ve not yet had the pleasure of meeting. Surely that depletes the mystery a bit.”
He watched her, thinking it should be true. “I doubt it’s even possible where you are concerned,” he said.
She canted her head, studying him as if he were an odd new species. “Tell me, Sir Drake, might you be smitten by me?”
“If I told you, would that not deplete my mystery?”
“Absolutely. But I do so wish to inform Merry May that I’ve netted the dark lieutenant who intrigued her so.”
He bowed his head. “Then far be it from me to deprive you of such pleasure. You may tell her that I’ve been netted, speared, and nicely sautéed.”
“Oh dear. It sounds quite gruesome.”
“Is love not supposed to be?” he asked, remembering a hundred poems he had read aboard ship while boredom and melancholy washed over him in waves. He had not been meant for the sea. Indeed, at one time he had rather fancied himself a poet, though the idea seemed laughable now.
“Love?” She chuckled musically. “I hadn’t dared hope your feelings had gone so far as all that.”
“Surely you did not expect otherwise.”
“On the contrary, sir, we’ve only just met.”
From the darkness, Shellum snorted and twitched.
“Though the circumstances are a bit unorthodox,” she added.
“Are they?”
“It is not every day that I am attacked in a friend’s garden if that is what you mean.”
“I thought perhaps it was,” he said. “I thought perhaps you were attacked and duly fought off your aggressors regular as clockwork.”
Her brows lifted in concert with the corners of her mouth. “Surely you don’t believe a mere woman bested those horrible thugs.”
He watched her. Beauty wrapped in intrigue. “Such an assumption would indeed be foolish,” he said.
She delayed a moment, studying him. “Absolutely,” she agreed finally and rose to her feet. “Well, I’d best be—”
“But many things are,” he said, and rising beside her, pulled her into his arms and kissed her.
Her lips were warm and sweet. Her breasts were soft as midnight dreams against his chest, and her fingers, where they curled into his hair, felt strong and urgent, tugging him nearer, pulling him close. His hale thigh settled between hers, and for several seconds she did not resist. But suddenly she pushed away.
Gone was the lady of composure and grace. “Good Lord!” she said.
“Good indeed.”
“I must go.”
“To find a bed?”
“To find my chastity belt,” she said, and rushing from the garden, disappeared into the new-falling rain.
Chapter 4
Elegance opened her eyes. The house was dark, silent, fraught with shapeless shadows that leaned against her bedroom wall, heavy-shouldered and belligerent. The moon had given up the battle for dominance in the beleaguered sky, but she knew the truth; she was not alone. She tensed, studied the feelings, tested the air, and smiled.
“So you’ve returned,” she said aloud.
“Oh, deuce it,” Madeline cursed, letting out her breath in a rush. “Someday I shall pounce on you from the doorway and scare you from your very wits.”
Ella closed her eyes and said a silent prayer of thanksgiving before schooling her features into a contented smile and sitting up. “It will never happen. Your thoughts are as loud as a herd of pachyderms.” Besides, it seemed all but impossible for others to use magic against her, just as it was difficult for her to use her powers against others who were gifted. Somehow, in her case at any rate, conflicting powers tended to wash each other out, dilute the effects. Reaching to the side, she passed her palm slowly over a nearby candle. It flickered to life, casting light across her sister’s lovely countenance. Ella studied each perfect feature, the aquiline nose, the cat-slanted eyes, the bounty of midnight hair cascading down the back of her velvet traveling suit. “You’re safe?”
“Of course,” she said, and pulling off her damp gloves, tossed them flippantly onto the nearby wardrobe.
But few things were as they seemed. Ella had learned that early on, hence she examined the other’s face in silence. It was unscarred certainly. Some would say unchanged. But some would be wrong. There was a bit of difference in her sister’s emerald eyes. “What happened?”
“Nothing. All went as planned.”
“Don’t lie to me,” she ordered, but Madeline laughed as she plopped onto the bed.
“Oh Josette, you sound like Jasper.”
“I do not,” Ella said, but perhaps the tiniest bit of petulant childishness had crept into her tone.
“Yes you do. So stern. Like a nasty schoolmaster. As if I’ve been a naughty girl caught stealing crumpets before tea.”
But Madeline was a little girl. Three years her junior, she was Ella’s only living relative.
Maddy’s fingers felt cold beneath her own. “What happened?” Ella asked.
Emotion flashed through Madeline’s soul, but she smiled, a tilting of her ruby lips if not a lightening of her mind. “You know I cannot say.”
“Secrets,” Ella said. She was angry suddenly. “Always secrets.” Pulling her feet from beneath the soft warmth of her counterpane, s
he dropped them quickly to the floor. Rummaging through her wardrobe, she tugged a night rail from a pile and tossed it onto her sister’s lap. “Jasper always did like to be the only one with all the puzzle pieces.”
“You’re being unfair, Jos,” Madeline said, fiddling with the gown.
“Get out of those wet clothes,” Ella ordered, and rummaged again for stockings.
“Sometimes I almost think—” she began, and stopped.
“What?” Ella said, still searching.
“Sometimes I almost think you’re in love with him,” she said.
“What?” Ella turned with a start, but Madeline wasn’t laughing. Instead she sat staring up at her with wide, solemn eyes.
“Are you?”
Ella puffed a breath of surprise. “In love?”
She nodded.
“With Jasper Reeves?”
The room went silent.
“You can admit it,” Madeline said, but Ella continued to stare, unable to speak. “I mean…” She plucked a loose thread from the borrowed nightgown. “He saved your life. It would only make sense.”
Closing her mouth with a snap, Ella walked over and placed her palm on her sister’s brow, but Madeline turned her head sharply away.
“I’m not ill.”
“Maybe just a touch of fever,” Ella said, and laughed, but Maddy pushed her hand away.
“I am quite serious.”
“Then it’s just as I always suspected. You’re the one who is mad.”
Maddy scowled. “Neither of us is mad.”
Sighing, Ella plopped down beside her. Pulling her bare legs up beneath her gown, she crossed her arms atop her knees. “I fear there are a host of people who would disagree on that count.”
“But none we cannot turn into toads,” Madeline whispered, and they laughed, remembering back. Past the good times, past the bad times, to the beginning, when they had thought they could do all things. Right all wrongs.
The tension was gone from Maddy’s soul. “So you’re still busy gadding about London?”
“I am not gadding about,” Ella said. “I have a serious and important task to perform.”
“Oh yes. That’s right. Breeding.”
Reaching out, Ella whacked her sister on the back of the head. “Choosing the father of your future niece,” she corrected.