The players each took a single glance down at their own sleeves, just to be sure, and then immediately set to fencing with one of their opposite number.
Backstage again with Melody, Pomme grunted in approval. “Now I’m glad we ran out ’o that black velvet.”
Pru watched as Mr. Lambert, whose coat was a more muted shade of green—which happened to match his eyes most attractively—took a sword from one of the “fallen” pirates and challenged Young Cam.
Cam’s sword was awkwardly wedged into his bandaging, but he swaggered so convincingly and was so large and handsome as the villainous enemy captain that Pru doubted that the crowd noticed at all.
“They battled all the day and all the night because . . . because . . .” The crowd was enraptured.
Think, man, think!
“Because of the kidnapped princess!” shouted Melody through the curtain.
The battle onstage hesitated slightly as they all realized that there was no princess at hand.
Something lacy fluttered over Pru’s head, getting in her view of the action onstage. She looked up to realize that Pomme had draped a Spanish head covering over her pinned hair. He smiled at her surprised expression as he pressed the comb rather painfully into place. “You’re up, Prudence.”
And then he shoved her through the curtain and onto the stage.
Out of the corner of his eye, Colin saw Miss Filby rather forcefully propelled from behind the curtain. She stumbled several steps as she struggled to unwind herself from the clutches of a tatty black lace mantilla.
Unfortunately, this put her directly into the confusion of the unrehearsed fray. Colin took a hit to his shoulder as he awkwardly dodged past Cam, but he was able to reach her side before she was impaled on anyone’s dull tin saber.
“Careful,” he whispered. He tucked her behind him.
Just as he did so, Cam performed an agile flip over them both, landing on his feet with his sword extended dramatically. “Unhand my prize, Captain Jack! She is mine, I tell you!”
Miss Filby shrieked in fear, shrinking conveniently toward stage left. “Oh, pray, save me, Captain Jack!” She wrung her hands. “Save me from the wicked pirate—er—”
“Black Pete shall not have you, my princess!” Colin mugged fiercely as he fenced with Cam. It was mostly a lot of dancing to and fro, with a great useless clanging of swords that mightily impressed the crowd. Colin enjoyed himself tremendously.
All around him, the body count grew. He saw that Melody now perched atop Pomme’s shoulders, watching from the side of the stage. Colin winked at her and she waved gleefully. She obviously enjoyed seeing her bedtime story come to life.
Then Cam struck a wild blow. Colin felt the sword hit his diaphragm just wrong. It was too dull to do real damage but the wind went right out of him. He dropped to his knees.
“Sorry, mate,” Cam muttered as he bent over him. “It’s these bloody bandages.” Then Cam stepped in front of Colin, hiding him from view while he swept the “princess” into his arms. “Yer mine now, my fine princess!” He cackled victoriously. “I’ve won ye, fair and square!”
“Woe is me!” Miss Filby lamented. “I shall perish in the grasp of such a blackguard! Will no one save me?”
The interesting thing about not being able to breathe, Colin found, was that he had a bit of time to notice things. Things like that Cam’s legs looked like tree trunks wrapped in linen. Things like the boards of the stage had once been painted a rusty red.
Things like Miss Filby’s voice sounded completely different. As the cultured, ladylike tones fell from her lips, he remembered his first impression of her in that darkened theater.
A beautiful voice. A husky, rich contralto filled with hints of sex and velvet. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
“I shall never surrender to you, you knave,” she went on. “I shall defend my virtue forever, or at least until someone rescues me!”
Lovely. Like fur on bare skin.
“And someone shall rescue me! Captain Jack is on his way—even now!”
Oh, right. That’s me.
Colin sprang to his feet. To his shock, he saw that Cam had Miss Filby locked in his arms, his face planted in her neck as she struggled to push him off her, her pointy little boots kicking in protest.
Bloody hell! Forgetting the play, forgetting everything but the way that the young giant’s hands were holding his Miss Filby, Colin let out a ferocious roar and raised his sword.
CHAPTER 11
With his vision fringed in red, Colin pulled Cam away from Miss Filby, spinning the man about and putting the point of his sword beneath the fellow’s chin. Cam’s eyes went wide.
“Erg!” Cam stumbled backward, away from Colin’s ferocity. Colin followed slowly, menacingly.
“You are done. Is that understood?”
Cam nodded, his irises ringed in white. “Got it!” he choked out.
Colin planted one hand on that thick chest and shoved Cam away. Then he turned back to see Miss Filby standing at the edge of the stage, staring at him. The black lace had been flipped away from her face and her large gray eyes were filled with something entirely new. She gazed at him with bright spots of pink in her cheeks and her mouth softly open. Colin glowered at her as he slowly crossed the stage.
Mine, his gaze said.
Yours, hers replied.
When he reached her, he tossed his sword aside. Taking her face into his hands, he tipped her head back and lost himself in those storm-sky eyes.
Mine.
Then he swooped down upon those sweetly parted lips.
Mine.
The crowd went insane.
Colin didn’t hear a thing but the great thudding of his own heart and the tiny delicious sigh of surrender she uttered into his mouth. Hot, soft, melting, wet—
Mine.
Then he felt hands upon him, tugging at him, slapping his back. His mind snapped back to reality like a spring released.
What the hell am I doing?
He let go of the woman he’d been kissing and stared at her as if he’d never seen her before. His vision swam with shocked, clouded eyes and kiss-swollen lips. Then he felt himself being turned to face—
A roaring crowd. They were on their feet, stamping and shouting and whistling, farmers and squires alike. Melody bounced riotously on Pomme, waving Gordy Ann like a flag.
He’d forgotten the play completely.
He’d forgotten everything and everyone.
Everything but her.
He felt Cam’s heavy arm drape across his shoulders.
“I think ye’ve got potential, Mr. Lambert.”
Just then Evan appeared. He drove himself between Colin and Miss Filby with his own small wooden sword raised high. The look he gave Colin should have scorched his hair from his head.
Colin saw Miss Filby squeeze her brother’s shoulder. “Don’t fuss, Ev. It were just a play.”
Right. Though Colin’s throat was tight with desire and his lips still burned where her soft ones had pressed, to her it was simply a bit of theater.
He had to hand it to her. She was a bloody good actress.
They all took their bows to long, loud applause, then filed off stage. Colin made his bow and walked off just like everyone else. He just didn’t remember doing it.
“Well,” Pomme said as he clapped Colin on the back. “It wasn’t Voltaire, but it wasn’t bad, my son. Not bad at all.”
That evening, after the very pleased audience went home and there was had a gleeful accounting of the day’s take, all the players were in fine spirits.
At least, most of them were.
Gentle laughter came from those seated circling the fire. Pru sat with her back chilled and her cheeks warmed, arms tucked about her raised knees, finding it difficult to join in.
Even though she was there, in the center of it, she could feel the distance grow. There it was again, that feeling of being on the outside looking in. It didn’t seem to matter if she
were watching London families through the windows of their snug town houses or sitting among ragtag players about a bonfire. It was always the same. There was a family sharing warmth and laughter or even sorrow.
And she wasn’t part of it.
It didn’t matter. She’d had a family once. She had her memories. She laid her cheek upon her knees and closed her eyes, trying to pull the past into the present. It didn’t work.
This happened more and more often now. Every year she had less to draw from. She remembered the trail of smoke from her father’s pipe, but not the smell. She remembered the way her mother’s blue silk gown rustled when she walked, but not her mother’s voice.
There was no use in the mourning of such things. She had more memories left than Evan had, after all. And she had Evan himself. She had one person in the world, a family, a brother. One fractious boy who drove her mad with frustration one minute and broke her heart with tenderness the next.
She opened her eyes to look across the fire at Mr. Lambert. Who did Colin Lambert have? He spoke longingly of Chantal, of course, but Pru would never believe his love would be returned. At the moment, he held the child Melody on his lap, propping her sleepy form into the crook of his arm. With his other hand, he patted the little back soothingly. Pru doubted he was even aware he did so.
He was so good with the tiny girl. His ward, he’d called her. Melody called him Uncle Colin, but Mr. Lambert spoke of no sister or brother.
None of which is your business, Miss Filby, and don’t you forget it.
He’d kissed her on stage. Her first kiss. For an instant she considered telling him so.
What purpose would it serve, other than to embarrass him and mock your own silly fancies?
It had been a shock, the way his lips had been so warm against hers, the way she could taste him after, the way he’d so easily swept her into his arms, lifting her onto her toes as if she’d weighed no more than her gown and a capful of air. The way the hardness of his chest had pressed the very breath from her body . . . the way her nipples had stiffened from the contact . . . the way her knees went soft and her thighs eased open . . .
The way he’d looked at her as if he owned her, heart and soul.
And body.
Her cheeks heated with no help from the fire. She ducked her head, hiding from the blush her own thoughts had caused her. Mr. Lambert had simply been caught up in his storytelling. He’d been putting on a show for the crowd. As far as he was concerned, he’d kissed a bit of stage scenery when he’d kissed her.
Such self-reproach did no good to ease the confusion in her body. She had to get away from the fire. The combination of heat and cold was making her feel feverish.
Colin looked up from his pint to see Miss Filby retreating from the golden circle of firelight into the blue chill of the shadows. Where was she going? To find her brother? He cast a glance around and spotted Evan nearby, rolling about in the dust with one of the troupe’s lads, a boy twice his size whom he seemed to have no trouble thrashing. After pausing to make sure it was a friendly match, Colin stood to follow Miss Filby, Melody asleep on his shoulder.
“ ’Ere, let me take ’er, guv’nor.” Pomme’s stout wife, as practical as her husband was theatrical, plucked sleeping Melody from his arms as she passed him. “I’ll put ’er to bed and that one, too.” She indicated Evan with her chin. “You go talk to that young lady. You’ve got summat to say to ’er.”
Colin blinked. “I—”
She slid him a knowing glance. “I been about long enough to know a kiss when I see one, guv’nor. ‘Ave you?”
Clearing his throat, Colin decided to let that pass. Miss Filby was a mature, practical sort. She was no “young lady.” She was a servant and a worldly theater seamstress at that. Surely she knew that he’d only done that particular act as part of the play.
However, it was the gentlemanly thing to do, to apologize when one had trespassed onto the person of a woman, no matter how lowborn. And trespass he had. Even now he could feel the way her full breasts had submitted to his chest when he’d pulled her close—
He halted abruptly. Submitted? What a strange choice of word . . .
Out of the corner of his eye he caught the sweep of gray wool skirts going behind the stage wagon. Right. He had a proper apology to make, the duty of a gentleman.
The spot where Melody had lain on his shoulder felt cold. He wished he still had her with him, as a sort of shield against . . .
Against what?
His thoughts were truly off point tonight. This quest was fair to making him as befuddled as one of the octogenarian fixtures at Brown’s!
With a slow tread, Pru climbed the set of steps that led to the stage. The day’s event seemed a distant moment now, a fantasy of pirates and swords and a roaring crowd. Nothing remained but the swelling sails of the canvas enclosure.
Safe in the darkness, Pru leaned one shoulder against the upright proscenium arch of the show wagon and ducked her head. Would she always be the wrong shape for the right space—too wellborn to live in the world below, too poor and misplaced to live in the world above?
Hearing a footstep close to her, she opened her eyes. In the dimness she saw a snowy handkerchief offered before her, resting in a large manicured hand. She turned away from it, from him.
“Pray, do not waste your gallantry on me, sir,” she choked out, her throat tight. “I am surely in no need of it.”
She felt his admiring chuckle vibrate through her.
“That is the damnedest bit of mimicry I’ve ever heard,” he said. “Really marvelous.”
Oh, God. Her true self was spilling out of her now and she hadn’t even realized it. Soon she’d be doing needlepoint and pouring tea! When had Prudence the lady risen so close to the surface? Why wouldn’t she stay dead and buried, like her past?
Reaching desperately for saucy Pru, pulling the insouciant seamstress about her like a suit of armor, she snapped her head up and gave Mr. Lambert a defiant glare. “Aye, the jolly pony tricks never end, do they? What would you like to see next? Would you like me t’ stomp out a sum w’ me foot?”
He didn’t laugh and he didn’t step back, as she’d expected him to. Absently, he pulled his hand and his handkerchief away with a furrow in his brow.
“I’ve offended you again, I see. I meant nothing of the kind.” He gazed at her for a long moment. “You are a prickly thing sometimes.”
Blast, now he was making her feel guilty for snapping at him. He’d only been polite, after all. He was quite the gentleman, to care about the feelings of a servant so.
Lord, she was growing as primitive as Evan. She straightened and faced him, her hands folded before her, her gaze somewhere about the middle button of his waistcoat. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m only in a mood, is all.”
“I can see that. I fear that’s my fault.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “It seems I owe you an apology.”
Pru blinked in alarm. Oh, no. He was going to mention it, wasn’t he? Couldn’t the man keep shut about anything? She backed away a step. “I must get back to Evan, sir. And Melody. It’s time they went to—”
Colin caught her wrist as she tried to slip around him. “Mrs. Pomme has them both well in hand, Miss Filby. Stay. I need to speak to you privately for a moment.”
He felt her pulse quicken against his fingertips. Her wrist was so delicate in his grip that he felt as if he were pawing her again. He would have let her go, but when she turned her startled gaze to face him at last, he saw the dampness still glazing those large, dark-lashed eyes, turning them moon silver in the dimness.
Don’t let her go. She’ll disappear into the night.
Truthfully, he couldn’t have let go if he’d tried.
CHAPTER 12
Slowly, without taking his gaze from Miss Filby’s, Colin raised her hand and pressed his handkerchief into it, folding her fingers about it. “Mood or no,” he said, his voice low, “I have something I wish to say to you. Will you stand still a moment a
nd hear it?”
She nodded slowly. Her heartbeat fluttered in his possession. He did not release it, but held her wrist gently in one hand and wrapped the other about her closed fingers, trapping her quite completely.
“I ought not to have left you behind,” he said softly. “I see now that I was wrong to do so. I should have listened to you when you told me you were fit enough to travel or at the least I should have taken better care to ensure that the innkeeper would abide by his word.”
“He was a greedy sort,” she said, her tone grudging. “But you couldn’t have known, sir.”
He shook his head. “The point is that once I took responsibility for your employ, I should have made sure you went on to another dutiful employer.”
Pru blinked. “D’you do that for all your servants?”
He smiled. “I don’t know. I still have all my servants.”
She thought about that for a long moment. It meant he was a good master, a rare thing in itself. A master who apologized when he was wrong? Unheard of.
My father was such a man.
She quelled that little voice. “Well, no matter. It started as a mess but it ended well. Pomme came along.”
“Yes, well, about that . . .” Surprisingly, he seemed embarrassed. “Miss Filby, I know that Pomme has offered you transportation and work, but if you would consider continuing with me, I truly do need your help with Melody.”
Stay with him? Oh, yes, please.
Not so fast. She narrowed her eyes as she gazed up into his face. “You left us. What prevents you from leaving us again?”
He thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. “I’d give you my word, but I doubt you’d take it.” Then he brightened. “I could pay you half now and half when we reach London.”
Please? Pretty please with a bonbon on top?
Shut it, I’m thinking.
Half now meant pounds in her pocket instead of pennies. It would be enough to get her and Evan out of any situation. The relief would be enormous.
Rogue in My Arms: The Runaway Brides Page 9