by Lucy Ashford
She stood there, her heart thudding as he carefully refilled the coal scuttle on the hearth. Then he turned to her and said quietly, ‘The captain asked me to tell you that he is waiting to hear from you, ma’am.’
Fierce rebellion suddenly burned in Ellie’s heart. What right had he? What right? Joseph meanwhile made his bow and was about to go—clearly he didn’t even expect a reply. But she called out to him, ‘Wait. I will write to your captain! Wait there.’
She hurried to her little desk where her writing things lay. Just for a moment, she gazed out of the window at the bare trees and the lowering sky, watching the sleet lashing in rods across the bleak foliage of the garden and remembering the months that she’d spent fleeing from France with her father. It was true that she’d lost everything—but she wouldn’t submit to the dangerous man who was Joseph’s master.
It’s impossible, she wrote to Luke swiftly, her pen scurrying across the paper, for me to achieve what you demand. And I must insist that you return what is rightly mine.
She would never forgive herself for allowing him to take possession of her father’s compass.
Sealing the letter carefully, she gave it to Joseph. ‘Please deliver this to your captain.’
And Joseph—surprisingly polite, surprisingly calm—gave her another bow as he took it. ‘Be sure that I will, ma’am.’
He left her and she sank into her chair again, picturing Luke’s expression as he opened and read her letter. Not good enough, I’m afraid, she could almost hear him saying. Mam’selle, I really expected more of you than this.
* * *
That night, it began to snow. It snowed so heavily and lay so thickly that going for her usual walk the next day was impossible. Ellie gazed out of her window and thought of Luke in that strange old house overlooking the shore and the sea. Why his interest in the French seaport of La Rochelle? He would have fought in Spain, not France. Why had he left the army to live in such isolation with his friends?
Was he dismissed because the injury to his hand meant he was of no use any more? She could well imagine that such a fate would have made him full of bitterness. Full of the need for revenge.
Had Joseph delivered her message? She expected every hour, every minute almost, to be contacted anew by Joseph’s secret master. She struggled with the dawning awareness that in him, she’d met someone who had invaded her life. Could control her life.
* * *
By the next day the snow had stopped, but the temperatures remained bitter. Lady Charlotte had been due to visit a friend in Hythe that afternoon, but the visit had to be cancelled, and Lady Charlotte decided to retire to her room—though not before reminding Ellie that she really ought to take up some ladylike diversion to occupy her time.
‘You could work on some embroidery, Elise,’ had become her repeated refrain. ‘Or how about music? You play the pianoforte, you told me.’
‘Yes, I did. But...’ You told me you couldn’t bear the sound, unless it was played by a true musician.
‘But what? There is a perfectly good instrument in the music room. You really should be able to demonstrate to Lord Franklin, when he next honours us with his presence, that you have been using his hospitality to advantage.’
Indeed, that afternoon Ellie went to play the pianoforte by herself, but it was badly out of tune—and after only a few minutes, she bowed her head over the keys, remembering how sweetly her mother used to play.
Suddenly she was so homesick that she could scarcely breathe.
Hurrying from the music room, she went up to her room to put on her cloak and her little laced-up boots. By now it was late afternoon and almost dark, thanks to the lowering clouds, but she was beyond caring—she had to leave the confinement of this place, if only for an hour.
Avoiding the servants, she left the house by the back door and followed the snow-covered path to the shrubbery. It was a path she took often, knowing it led to an ornamental pavilion well away from the house where she could sit in peace. Sometimes, too, she brought crusts of bread she’d saved from the dining table to feed the birds, and often a bright-eyed robin would be watching out for her from the nearby branches.
Already a full moon was rising above the trees. Behind her the lights from the house glittered in the frosty air and her breath misted. Nearby was a stone birdbath, where she headed now to break the ice for the birds. But she never got there.
Because she’d heard a muffled movement behind the trees.
She remembered her fear in Brussels, her belief that someone was still after her. She remembered the man with pale hair and pale eyes, whom she’d kept glimpsing in the crowds that filled the square by day or gathered outside the local tavern by night.
And then she realised that someone was coming towards her from the darkness behind the pavilion. A nearby jay clattered out its alarm call, making her jump and drop the bread; the shadows shifted, and an all-too-recognisable figure stepped forward.
It was Captain Luke.
Chapter Twelve
He was dressed in his usual long coat and shabby boots, but even they couldn’t detract from the obvious strength of his powerful figure. And the way that he moved—graceful, purposeful—somehow reminded her of an animal stalking its helpless prey. Her.
For a moment, Ellie felt her heart drumming so hard she thought it might burst. She took a step backwards, her eyes fastened on that blue, knowing gaze, the slanting cheekbones, that wickedly distracting mouth. He came a little closer, in a series of easy, lithe movements that belied the harsh strength of his body.
Her hand flew to her throat. If she tried to run back to the house, he would catch her almost instantly. He is too dangerous for me, she acknowledged in despair. Too dangerous.
He bowed his head curtly. ‘Mam’selle,’ he said. ‘I startled you. I’m sorry. But I need to talk to you.’
‘How did you...?’ She was going to ask him how he’d known she was here, but she stopped herself. Joseph, of course. Joseph must have told him she came out here often; Joseph had quite possibly arranged some signal to let him know when she left the house.
‘I assume,’ she said, ‘that you received my correspondence. My letter.’ She meant her words to sound defiant, but it all came out wrong—somehow she lost her breath completely and her words tied themselves up in knots.
His head was a little to one side, as if he was considering carefully what she’d said. ‘I did get your letter,’ he answered calmly at last. ‘And I’m afraid that what you wrote just wasn’t good enough.’
As he spoke he was moving towards her, all the time. Somehow she held herself steady, although she couldn’t help but feel her heart constrict at his nearness. A sharp jolt of awareness imploded quietly yet devastatingly inside her—awareness of what, exactly? Of his pure and utter masculinity, that was what. She found herself thinking, in one wild, crazy moment, that all kinds of women would seek to keep him company. To seek his kisses and to share his bed...
‘I cannot do it,’ she whispered. ‘I cannot gain access to the papers you require.’
He arched his dark eyebrows. ‘I don’t recall giving you a choice—mam’selle.’
She made a sudden, involuntary move towards the path that led back to the house, but even more quickly, he blocked her way—and put both his hands on her shoulders.
His touch burned her. Dieu du ciel—all of her burned. Surely, she told herself with a thumping heart, surely he wouldn’t be intending to kidnap her? No—because she was of far more use to him inside Lord Franklin’s home. And he’d come here, doubtless, to remind her of that fact.
She pulled herself, shaking, away from his grasp. He let his hands fall to his sides and gave a small sigh.
‘I don’t intend you any harm,’ he said. ‘But I wouldn’t advise you to try any tricks. And if you’ve got your pistol with you, you�
��re certainly not going to improve your situation by firing it at me.’
She stared at him, white-faced. ‘I haven’t got it.’
‘Good. Do I have your word that you won’t run, or raise the alarm?’
He had her father’s compass. He knew her secrets. ‘What do you want?’ she whispered.
He was watching her intently. ‘What I want, mam’selle, is simple enough. Get those papers from Lord Franklin’s library for me. That’s all I ask.’
‘And then?’ She was breathless with emotion.
‘Then I’ll give you back your father’s compass.’
Ellie squared her slender shoulders. ‘Why not ask your friend Joseph to get into Lord Franklin’s library?’
‘Because,’ he replied, ‘I’m fairly sure that the documents I require may demand a knowledge of French geography, French vocabulary even—which Joseph, despite his many other skills, does not possess.’
‘Who is Joseph? How much do you pay him to be your spy?’
‘I pay him nothing. My grandfather, from whom I inherited the house where I live, took Joseph in from the workhouse as a youngster. He employed him as a kitchen boy—a lowly job, but my grandfather was good to him, and Joseph was grateful.’
‘As I will be grateful to you—once you return what you stole from me. My father’s compass.’
‘You’ll get it back,’ he said softly, ‘as soon as I get those papers.’
Already Ellie was shaking her head. ‘It’s impossible. The library is always locked...’
‘And I’m very patient. You’re not going to tell me that you feel any particular sense of loyalty to Lord Franklin, are you? Not after your desperate attempt to escape?’
‘Lord Franklin took me in when I was homeless!’
‘Have you ever wondered why?’
‘Because he is my relative.’
‘And you accepted what he said, when he told you he was your relative? Turning up in Brussels, just like that?’
‘Of course!’ Her eyes flashed up to meet his. ‘He is a generous man—although I can’t imagine it’s the kind of generosity that someone like you would ever feel!’
‘It’s rather rare in Lord Franklin, too, by all accounts.’
She couldn’t answer, because deep down he’d voiced her own doubts. She couldn’t trust Lord Franklin. She didn’t trust Lord Franklin. She twisted her hands at her sides. If only this man wouldn’t look at her like that. As if he could hear the wild pounding of her own heartbeat.
He’d folded his arms and was gazing down at her, impassive. ‘You want your father’s compass, don’t you? Then you must find me the papers I need, from Lord Franklin’s library.’
‘How can I? The keys are kept in the steward’s office.’
‘Ah. Mr Appleby.’ His eyes were knowing and shrewd. ‘Surely, mam’selle, you can use your charms to distract him, somehow? I would guess that during your various adventures, you’ve learned how to use your femininity just as expertly as you learned to use that gun of yours—’
Her hand shot out to slap him; Luke caught her wrist just in time, forcing her hand away.
Damn it, he thought, she was a little vixen. She looked so physically fragile, so petite, and her defiance was hopeless—stupid—but she just didn’t give up. The hood of her cloak had slipped back now and he saw how she’d tied back her long dark curls in a pale green ribbon, in the most simple and guileless of ways. His accusation about her using her charms had been unfair, he knew—she used no obvious arts or artifices, no face paint or jewellery. And as for her clothes, she wore the same old cloak over the same plain grey gown that she’d worn last time.
No vanity. That was only one of the things about her that stirred deep-seated emotions he’d forgotten he ever had. Brought to life his compassion, his respect—and another impulse that was far more dangerous. The desire to hold her in his arms and make her want him. Really want him, make her cry out his name, in need and passion.
Before he’d joined the army, Luke had built up a reputation for success with women—indeed, he’d had fashionable girls of the ton sighing for him and beautiful but bored wives of rich men eagerly competing for his attentions. He knew well enough how to keep them happy.
But—commitment?
Three years ago, he had entered into a romance—an engagement, no less—with Caroline Fawley. Her wealthy father had objected strongly; it had ended badly and Luke’s name had been blackened. Now Luke knew he shouldn’t lay a finger on the French girl standing before him in the snowbound garden, because he was damaged, body and soul.
But he needed, desperately, to find out what had happened to his brother. And this girl had to be a part of his plans—indeed, he was going to have to force her into cooperation if necessary. He wondered suddenly if she had anyone in the world on her side, now that her father had died.
He told himself it was nothing to do with him. It was none of his business—just as the slight quiver that he’d heard in her hitherto calm voice, betraying, he guessed, her desperate attempt to conceal her outright fear, was nothing to do with him either. Yet how old had she said she was? Nineteen? And without anyone in the world to trust, least of all him.
Luke thrust his hands harshly into his coat pockets and reminded himself to keep them where they belonged. ‘I believe,’ he said coolly, ‘that you are completely capable of doing what I ask. You are trying my patience, Elise.’
‘Ellie...’ she breathed. ‘My name is Ellie.’ Then—before he could register her intention—she’d whipped round and was off, running. She managed to get several yards down the path before he caught up with her and turned her to face him.
‘Let me go!’ She struggled and he tightened his grip on her arms.
‘So,’ Luke said, ‘you’re still not going to cooperate.’ Ellie. An English name—but of course, she had an English mother. ‘Though really, you know—you haven’t any effective way of fighting me.’
‘Only because you don’t play fair.’ She was shivering a little, he saw, in this intense cold, but her voice was steady. She was brave, he thought again in wonder. Amazingly brave. Luke sighed. He’d been thinking about her far too much in the last few days and one of the reasons she’d haunted him was not just because of her remarkable obstinacy, but because of her outrageous—if useless—courage.
‘Mam’selle,’ he said, ‘this isn’t a game. And life isn’t fair.’
‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ Suddenly her eyes looked haunted—dark with unspoken grief. ‘You’ve talked of justice, monsieur. Justice—and yet you hide away, in that half-ruined old house of yours. You openly admit that you have spies everywhere. You’re ashamed to come out in the open, to ask Lord Franklin openly for what you want, as other, honest men would—’
‘Ellie,’ he broke in. ‘You talk a little too much.’
‘And I won’t allow you to silence me!’
‘Won’t you?’
She gasped. Because he was lifting the fingertips of his left hand to let them trail across her full mouth, brushing away a tiny cold snowflake that had landed there—then letting the pad of his finger travel on down to her deliciously pointed little chin.
And he leaned in and kissed her.
Just a touch. That was all Luke ever intended. Just one brief, sweet meeting of lips—but the joining of their mouths, her soft skin against his, sent lightning bolts through him, astonishing him. He saw that her eyes were closed, he realised that her lips were slightly parted and his heart drummed, his loins pounded. She was wonderfully sensual—and she was an innocent. Stop there, Luke ordered himself. God help him, everything about her shouted a warning for someone like him to stay well clear.
But he didn’t. Instead, he wrapped his other arm around her narrow waist, which meant that her slender body was up against his, fitting so sweetly that his p
ulse jolted with lightning desire. He gazed down at her. Her green eyes, flecked with amber lights, were wide open now, half in fear, half in longing. He drank in her dark lashes, her creamy skin, her full mouth and he kissed her again.
Only this time his lips stayed there. He heard her moan softly, felt her press herself closer in, her mouth opening shyly under his. She tasted of honey and melting snowflakes, and Luke deepened the kiss, at the same time strengthening his grasp on her narrow waist and holding her closer, harder, exploring the inner softness of her mouth with his tongue, until he felt her hands twined urgently round his back, until all he knew was the drumming of his blood in his ears and the heat engulfing his loins.
And then she pulled away. She wrenched herself from his arms, her hand to her throat, and he saw that her eyes were dark with shock.
‘Stop,’ she whispered. ‘Please stop.’
Luke sighed and dragged his hand through his hair. He moved away resignedly, willing his pulse to return to normal. He shouldn’t have done what he did. Shouldn’t have touched her, much less kissed her. ‘That’s a pity, mam’selle,’ he said coolly. ‘I thought perhaps we’d found a way of resolving our differences. But I’m afraid that your father’s compass stays in my hands until you’ve got yourself into Lord Franklin’s library and found those documents for me.’
She looked devastated. All the colour had drained from her face, except for her lips, which were still rosy and swollen from his kiss.
‘You are hateful,’ she whispered. ‘Hateful.’
His face never changed. But raw emotion hit him in the gut. She was right—he was. But his brother. His brother, who might still be alive...
He reached down to the floor to pick up the delicate green ribbon that had fallen from her hair. ‘You know,’ he said quietly, ‘green suits you. You should wear more of it. It matches your eyes.’
Without a word, she snatched the ribbon from him and thrust it into her pocket. What did you expect, you fool? That she might like your flattery? Beg you for more?