by Jane Feather
Alasdair crossed the room in two strides. He caught her shoulders and spun her around to face him. “By God, Emma, I have never been so close to striking a woman as I am now.”
“Oh, go on, then!” she cried. “Violence is only what one would expect of a man who would belittle one mistress to curry favor with another.” She flinched from the look in his eyes. His fingers curled hruisingly on her shoulders, and she waited in a kind of dreadful expectancy for him to do as he’d threatened. It would make her despise him even more. It would finally, absolutely kill all other emotions.
Alasdair’s hands dropped from her shoulders. He stepped away from her. He sighed a long, deep, shuddering breath, then rubbed his eyes and his mouth with his fingertips, ran his flat palms across his face in a gesture of utter weariness.
Emma saw that his hands shook.
“Instead of hurling accusations at me, why don’t you simply tell me what occurred?” he said, his voice now as calm as a millpond. “Clearly you have some reason for this insult. And, by God, Emma, it had better be a good one.”
The first faint possibility came to her that maybe it was all a mistake, a hideous mistake. She felt the first stirring of hope. She knew Alasdair and she knew he could not have been feigning his anger. He gave not the slightest sign of guilty awareness, of even the remotest hint of conscience.
She took a deep breath and told him exactly what she’d overheard in the retiring room at Almack’s.
Alasdair listened, his expression growing livid as she spoke. Emma’s voice faltered once or twice as she saw the bright rage sparking in his eyes, but she continued steadily with her tale, careful not to embellish what she’d heard.
When she’d finished, Alasdair said, “Listen to me, and listen to me very carefully. I have never, I would never, discuss you with anyone in any personal terms whatsoever. Julia Melrose has a mischievous tongue. And she may consider she has an ax to grind. Whatever she attributed to me did not come from me.”
Emma rubbed her hands together as if they were cold. “But can you deny that she could have received such an impression from you that would make her feel justified in saying those things?”
“I cannot say what impression she might have received from me,” he said with curt dismissal. “I have no idea what she might have twisted to suit her own purposes.”
“So you would never talk about me with another woman?”
“Have I not just said so?” he demanded angrily.
Emma swallowed and for the first time ever mentioned the taboo subject. “Not even with the mother of your child?”
Alasdair’s face closed. He said with icy finality, “We will leave Lucy out of this, if you please. I will no more discuss her with you than I would discuss you with her.”
“So you really do think it’s possible to keep all your women in separate compartments?” Emma observed.
They’d started on this road and she was now determined to go down it to the very end. It was way past time, and if it led to the final irrevocable break between them, then so be it. She knew now she couldn’t live like Alasdair. The ephemeral pleasures of passion and amusing and enthusiastic companionship were not enough for her. And they never would be.
Alasdair turned away from her. He picked up his tankard and took another drink. He walked to the hearth and stood, one foot on the bright copper fender, his left arm stretched along the mantelpiece, his eyes on the fire. He raised his head and drank again.
Emma waited, her chest suddenly tight, her breath suspended.
“How many mistresses do you think I have, Emma?” he asked conversationally.
“I don’t know. There’s Lady Melrose, there’s me, if I can be called one, there’s the mother of your child,” she said doggedly.
“There’s you.” The simple statement was spoken so quietly that for a minute she wasn’t sure she had heard him aright.
“That is,” he continued, “assuming you consider yourself to be my mistress.”
“Only me?” she said.
“Only you.”
“Oh.” It was on the tip of her tongue to ask what had happened to the others. Was this the ax Julia Melrose was grinding? But then she reflected that it wasn’t her business. She could hardly accuse him of talking about her in one breath and then ask him to talk about other women in the next.
“Just me … at the moment?” It was important to get this absolutely clear.
“Until you decide otherwise.”
“Oh,” she said again. There was silence, into which drifted the sounds from the street below: the rattle of iron wheels on cobbles, a hawker crying his wares, the squeal of a kicked dog.
“Come here,” Alasdair said, setting his tankard on the mantelpiece.
Emma hung back for a minute. He had a certain look in his eye that she wasn’t sure about.
“Emma, come here,” he repeated quietly, crooking a finger at her.
She went over to him, reflecting crossly that it was absurd to feel this defiant bravado, as if she was somehow in the wrong. She had had every right to confront him.
Alasdair clasped her face between his hands. “You, my sweet, are the most suspicious, crosspatch of a termagant it was ever any man’s misfortune to adore.”
Emma’s eyes glowed gold. “Adore?” she queried.
“Yes, damn you! For my sins.” He kissed her roughly, his hands hard on her face. “You are not in the least adorable, and yet I’ve adored you from the moment I first saw you with your stripey pigtails and torn petticoat.”
“Did I have?” she asked, in genuine surprise at such a recollection.
“You always had a torn petticoat.”
“That has to be an exaggeration,” she protested.
“Quite possibly.” His arms slid around her back until he was cupping her shoulder blades in his palms, holding her tight against him. He gazed steadily down into her eyes.
“I don’t know what else to say, Emma. I want you. I need you. I love you as I have never loved another woman. If that’s not enough for you, I don’t know what else I can do or say.”
There was such plea in his voice. It was so uncharacteristic of Alasdair, Emma was silenced. She stood in the circle of his arms, just looking at him.
“Do you love me?” he asked when the silence became intolerable.
“Yes,” she said in a low voice. “I have always loved you. Even when I loathe you, I love you.”
Alasdair laughed softly and kissed the corner of her mouth. “Well, maybe that’s as much as I can expect … for now.”
She would learn to trust him again. He told himself that the battle was almost won as her body softened in his arms and her mouth yielded to his kiss. They were made to be together, inextricably entwined. Emma could not hold out against this truth forever.
Chapter Thirteen
They reached the Black Gull at Potters Bar soon after noon. Sam led the horses off to bait them and Emma went into the inn to order a nuncheon for when Maria arrived in the chaise. They should arrive soon after one o’clock, Alasdair reckoned. The journey from Potters Bar to Stevenage, where they would stop for the night, would take the chaise another two hours this afternoon. An easy enough journey that wouldn’t tire Maria unduly.
Emma gave her orders in the inn and then went back to the stableyard. Alasdair was standing under the arched carriage entrance to the yard, looking down the street.
“Can you see them?” She came up beside him.
“Not yet.”
“Let’s take a stroll. I could do with stretching my legs.”
He nodded agreeably and gave her his arm.
“I’ve been thinking,” Emma said. Alasdair groaned. “Not again. That always seems to lead to trouble.”
“Be serious.”
“Believe me, I am being.”
Emma treated this with the disdain it deserved. “Don’t you think it would have been much more convenient for those men last night if I hadn’t woken up when I did?”
Alasdair
’s step slowed. “Meaning?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure what I’m getting at, but I don’t normally fall asleep in the middle of a ball. I thought …” she hesitated, then continued, “I thought I just felt ill because of what I’d overheard. But I wasn’t ill. I was asleep.”
Alasdair stopped at a low wall running alongside the narrow village street. He leaned against it, looking out over the rolling countryside, considering this. “What did you eat or drink at Almack’s?”
“Nothing. It’s hardly inviting fare.” She turned and hitched herself up on the wall beside him, swinging her long legs.
“True.” He frowned. “You and I drank the same wine at dinner. We ate from the same dishes.”
“Yes.” She shook her head. “Never mind, it was just something that occurred to me … that if they weren’t ordinary burglars, then maybe they could have arranged to put me to sleep.”
“I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself.” He stared out across the wall. “But I don’t see how it could have been done.”
Then he turned and put his hands at her waist, scolding, “Such an indecorous creature you are, sitting on walls like a little girl! It’s a wonder you don’t still have torn petticoats.” He lifted her down, shaking his head. “The wall’s covered in moss. Turn around.”
He twisted her and dusted off the back of her orange skirt with a degree of vigor, then his hand paused, traced the curve of her backside, kneaded the firm flesh beneath her skirt.
“Alasdair, we’re in the middle of the village!” she hissed, pulling away. “Don’t do that!”
“But I like to,” he said simply.
“Satyr!” Emma accused. Then her attention was caught by the sound of carriage wheels. “Here’s the chaise! For pity’s sake, behave.”
Alasdair merely chuckled.
Maria descended from the carriage in a breathless sweep of chatter. “Such a well-sprung vehicle, I do declare. I’ve never had such a smooth journey. And not the slightest moment of alarm crossing Finchley Common, although I do so dread highwaymen. Did you enjoy your drive, Emma love?” She beamed upon Emma and Alasdair.
“Yes, it was lovely,” Emma said, lying through her teeth. It had been one of the most uncomfortable drives of her life. “My horses have the softest mouths.”
Maria’s nod conveyed knowledgeable understanding of this important issue, although she had never held a pair of driving reins in her life.
“This afternoon we’re going to ride to Stevenage,” Emma continued cheerfully. “To rest the chestnuts. But come into the inn, now. Nuncheon is waiting for you. And there’s a bedchamber where you may refresh yourself first.”
“Oh, how pleasant. What a pretty village this is.” Maria entered the inn, as always prepared to be pleased. “I own I would like to wash my hands and comb my hair. Come up with me, love.”
Alasdair remained behind in the stableyard. “Everything all right, Jemmy?”
“Aye.” Jemmy dismounted from Phoenix. “Traffic’s summat chronic, though. Couldn’t ’ardly get through Barnet, it was such a press.”
“It should be quieter now we’re out of London. You’ll find Sam in the kitchen when you’ve stabled Phoenix and Swallow. Make sure they give us a good team for the next stage.”
“They’ll not fob anythin’ but prime-goers on me, guv,” Jemmy declared, spitting into the straw at his feet.
“No,” Alasdair agreed with a half smile. He went into the inn.
The four horsemen were at this point passing the gibbet at Fallow Corner. “You’re certain they’re heading north, Paolo?” Luiz slouched in his saddle like a sack of potatoes. He was a dreadful rider and disliked the exercise intensely.
“I followed them to the Islington toll. They bought tickets for the next three stages on the turnpike.” Paul sounded as irritable as he felt. He had hoped to have this business over and done with by now, instead of which he was chasing over the open countryside after a procession as long as a Roman triumph.
Luiz grunted and slumped deeper in his saddle. “We make better time than a chaise,” he offered. “And they’ll be stopping to change horses.”
“At Barnet, probably,” Paul muttered almost to himself. “We’ll pick up their tracks there.”
He glanced sideways at the other two men, who rode in silence, with impassive expressions. Their English was sketchy and they were under strict instructions to maintain silence except when they were alone. The minute they opened their mouths, they’d give the game away. But Paul liked the look of them otherwise. He knew the type and they made good servants in business of this kind. They had the solid brute demeanor of those without either imagination or conscience. If they were told to murder, they would do so. If they were told to hurt, they would do so without compunction.
Barnet was a hive of activity as the turnpike traffic from both the Holloway road and the Great North road converged. Paul rode into the stableyard of the Green Man to make inquiries.
A weasel-faced ostler stared at him pityingly. “Nah, we ‘avn’t ’ad no northbound traffic changin’ ’osses ’ere.” He sucked on a straw as if considering the issue. “ ‘Course, we wouldn’t expect none neither, seein’ as ‘ow the Green Man don’t do business wi’ northern traffic. We only does the southern.” He delicately picked a wisp of straw off his tongue, adding with great condescension, “Thought everyone knowed that.”
Paul controlled the urge to check the man’s insolence with his whip. He turned his horse to ride out of the yard.
“Eh, guvnor …” a voice peeped up at him.
He looked down at a scrawny urchin trotting along beside him. “I could tell you where the northerners go.” The child held up a grimy hand.
Paul took out a penny. “Well?”
“The Red Lion, guv.” The child jumped up, hand outstretched for the penny.
Paul tossed it to the ground and rode back to the street.
At the Red Lion, he struck gold. The inn servants did not recall a chaise with two women passengers, but they did recall a curricle driven by a lady in an orange habit, accompanied by a gentleman. They had stepped into the inn for half an hour to take refreshment before continuing to Potters Bar.
“What now?” Luiz asked, easing his aching back. “We rest a bit here?”
Paul glanced up at the sun. It was beginning its downward slide to the west. “No,” he said. “We’re in no danger of running into the back of them. We keep going.”
Luiz muttered and took the tankard of ale handed up to him by a potboy. He drained the contents in one long gulp. “How long d’you think these beasts can keep going?”
“Well change them at Potters Bar.” Paul was impatient but Luiz was having his tankard refilled and his fellow travelers were doing likewise. He was thirsty himself, but perversely refused to quench his thirst. He had his sights set on his mission, and pride would not permit such trivialities as hunger, thirst, and fatigue to be considered.
“Eh, Paolo, don’t be so sour,” Luiz chided. “We’ll get the woman … pick her off easy. Whatever inn they’re at tonight, we’ll winkle her out of there.”
Paul’s nostrils flared; his mouth grew small. He knew Luiz spoke the truth. They’d done much harder things in their time. And their quarry and her protector couldn’t know they were being pursued.
“Lemonade!” Emma said suddenly. She reined Swallow in to a walk and turned to Alasdair, riding beside her. “Lemonade.”
“Lemonade?” he queried. “What about it?”
“I had some … last night … at Almack’s,” she said impatiently. “When the duke of Clarence was proposing … or at least I think that was what he was doing. He wasn’t too clear. He was certainly proposing something.”
“I hope you set him right,” Alasdair commented dryly.
“Yes, of course I did. I left him … but you’re not listening to me.”
“I am. Lemonade.” He raised an inviting eyebrow. “Tell me about it.”
“Paul Denis brou
ght me a glass … just before I told him that I wasn’t going to marry him … that I wasn’t going to marry anyone, is what I said, so as to let him down gently, you understand.”
“I understand,” he said rather more aridly than before. “You seem to have had rather a busy evening putting off suitors. Was he brokenhearted?”
“No.” Emma glared at him. “Can’t you keep to the point?”
“My apologies.” He bowed slightly. “Denis brought you a glass of lemonade. You drank it?”
Emma frowned. “I was drinking it and then Princess Esterhazy took him away and the duke arrived. I think I must have lost interest in it at that point. Then, of course, I escaped to the retiring room to avoid the duke and … well, you know what happened then.”
“Mmm. To my cost.”
“Well?” she demanded.
“Well what?”
“Alasdair, how can you tease like this?” she exclaimed, quite out of patience. “There are all these desperados intent on torturing me so that the duke of Wellington won’t win his spring campaign, and all you can do is make mock!”
She touched Swallow with her heels and the roan leaped forward, breaking into a gallop.
Alasdair kept Phoenix back. His teasing facade was just that. The puzzle pieces fitted so neatly he couldn’t understand why he hadn’t picked them up before. Charles Lester had warned him that the enemy had learned Emma had the document. Paul Denis had walked into his life, made a beeline for Emma, and Alasdair had merely seethed with pure masculine jealousy and completely ignored the very real possibility that this plausible, seeming-French gentleman had much more than fortune hunting at stake.
He could have kicked himself for his stupidity. His utter blindness. He’d been so wrapped up in Emma he hadn’t looked further than the end of his nose.
Emma, when she realized he hadn’t followed her, drew rein and turned Swallow. She rode back to him and saw instantly from his expression what he was thinking. “You’re cross with yourself?”
“Mad as fire,” he agreed.
“But it doesn’t matter now. He didn’t succeed last night, and now we’re well away.”