Stirring Passions

by Maggi Andersen

  He stood behind her. “I'm glad you find it so."

  She turned so swiftly she was almost in his arms. “For lovers to share."

  He gazed down at her, his gray eyes thoughtful. “There are no lovers here."

  She lifted her face to him. “A pity, is it not?"

  At such close quarters, his gaze traveled over her high cheekbones, the delicate contours of her nose and the smoothness of her chin. He searched her eyes for answers and caught that familiar flash of defiance. He was right. She was as guilty of deceit as he. But he read the passion there-something that could not be feigned. Almost against his will, he stroked her creamy cheek with a finger. “You are incorrigible, Angelique."

  She lay her cheek against his hand. “Am I? One might think you prepare this house for a wife. Or a lover."

  He removed his hand as the urge to cover that wonderful mouth with his gripped him. “Then you are wrong. I do it for myself,” he said lightly, walking away. “I must give instructions to the builders. I shall enjoy your charming company at dinner."

  She followed him inside. “Jason?"

  "Yes?"

  "You need a spell from house restoring. Come for a ride this afternoon. Fresh air will put back the sparkle in your eye."

  He laughed. On the back of a horse he was relatively safe from her charms. “Wonderful idea. I'll show you my lands. This is a beautiful part of the country. The North and South downs are famous."

  "Merci beaucoup,” she said, clapping her hands, her incredible blue eyes sparkling with delight.

  Jason excused himself and walked to the west wing where carpenters were gradually removing all traces of the fire and, hopefully, the worst of the memories with it. Angelique was testing him to the limit. It was proving as hard to resist her as he'd feared. After he had the document safely in his possession, he would no longer have cause to. Although he knew that in some respects he was a changed man, he yearned to show her that the Jason of old still existed beneath the surface. The joyous, playful part of him, which had been buried by the sadness of coming home. But now, he must stay focused on his quest. Too much depended on it.

  * * * *

  They rode together over the rolling green fields. In the distance, the white, cone-shaped roofs of the oast houses dotted the landscape. In the woods, men were cutting the trees down to stumps.

  "Whatever are they doing?” Angelique called to him.

  "Coppicing. It makes the trees stronger, thicker."

  They rode through the deer park and vaulted a low wall.

  Jason brought his mount beside hers. “Where did you learn to ride like that?"

  "One of the things you have yet to learn about me,” she answered with a smile.

  They reined in beside the ornamental lake. Ducks and swans swam about, sending ripples flitting over the smooth surface. A mile away atop a rise sat the house outlined against the sky.

  "What are the gardeners digging there for?” Angelique asked him pointing to a group of men working halfway up the hill.

  "We are creating a ‘folly', a rustic ruin. My man tells me it's a must."

  "Oh. Lovely,” she said, frowning.

  He looked surprised. “I would have thought such a romantic notion would appeal to you."

  "I love the idea, but surely not there, Jason. Look, it's going to break that wonderful sweep of lawn and block the view of the house."

  Jason followed her pointing finger. “I do believe you're right. I hadn't viewed it from this angle."

  "A rustic should be something you stumble upon as you wander the garden, I think.” She glanced around. “Further to the left, perhaps, over towards that band of trees."

  "Thank you. I'll instruct my head gardener. Shall we go on?"

  They rode to the river.

  "This is a truly beautiful place, Jason. It equals the very best of the French countryside,” she said as he dismounted.

  Jason secured his horse and reached up to help her down. Angelique rested her hands on his shoulders. He lowered her slowly to the ground as their eyes met. The smooth, blue velvet of her habit was sensuous beneath his fingers. His hands lingered at her waist for several minutes after she'd found her feet, then he moved away, busily tethering her gray mare to a branch.

  She leaned back against the tree, watching him.

  Her silence made him look up. The superbly cut riding habit hugged the deep curve of her waist and hip. “But this isn't Paris,” he continued.

  She looked at him quizzically. “I do not have to reside in Paris."

  "Your costume was made there, no doubt."

  "But of course."

  His glance took in all of her, from her boots to the deep-brimmed, black hat. “It fits you wonderfully well."

  Her mouth curled up at the corners. “I declare when I depart here, you shall be restored to your former self,” she said with satisfaction. “A true Courtier."

  "Not entirely,” he said, feeling his heart contract at the thought of her leaving him. “You are planning to leave ... soon?"

  She looked at him sadly. “I feel it likely I shall have to, Jason."

  He was forced to admit he loved having her here. To drink in her beauty over the dinner table. To discover her curled up in a chair in the library reading. To look forward to the thrust and parry of their banter. The house would be cold and empty without her. “That sounds imperative. Care to explain why?” He made the words sound careless, indifferent, pushing away the pain.

  "I might. If you were to confide in me first."

  He turned towards the horses. He would do almost anything to banish that which stood between them, but still he held his tongue. It was even more important now. It had become self-preservation.

  After a long pause she spoke. “No? Well, I'll answer one of your questions. I shall be gone by the end of the week."

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  Chapter Eleven

  Annie arrived back at Grosvenor Square and ran straight into Laurie returning from lunch at Boodles in Pall Mall.

  "What is it, Annie? Are you being chased by a footpad?” His smile turned to concern as Annie gasped out the disappearance of Miss Kilgarth.

  "I waited, y'lordship. I didn't leave ‘er. But she didn't come out of that ‘ouse, I swear."

  "It's all right, Annie. Don't worry. Sir Harold Austerely has probably given her tea."

  "I saw ‘im come back while she was still inside. I didn't know what to do. ‘e had someone with him. Another man."

  "How long did you wait after that?"

  Annie put her hands to her head. “It seemed like ‘ours."

  Laurie patted her arm. “You've probably just missed her, that's all. She'll be along presently."

  Having hid his anxiety from the frightened maid, Laurie gave vent to a stream of cusswords that would make a footpad blanch should one be within earshot. He had been wrestling with the harsh words he and Kat had shared all day and finally admitted that she was quite right to accuse him of not standing by her. He pulled his coat back on and ran to the street, hailing a Hansom. The cab drew up outside his Godfather's house and he went up and banged on the door. Several minutes later, Graves opened it.

  "Sir Harold has gone away for a few days, y'lordship."

  "Was he on his own?"

  "I believe he had Monsieur Gascoigne with him. He had the carriage come to the back door. I didn't see him leave."

  "That's strange. Was this his usual habit?"

  "No, he's never done so before. A carriage in Curzon Street lost a wheel. I expect that might have been the reason."

  "Where was he going, Graves?"

  "Paris, I believe, y'lordship. Something urgent came up."

  Laurie walked away with his mind reeling. His eyes constantly searched the streets as he traveled home. Kat had always been so headstrong but surely nothing could have happened to her. He felt positive she'd be there waiting when he got home, amused by his concern.

  * * * *

  Kate was not waiting
for Laurie when he arrived home. It was growing dark and Lady Firth was beside herself with worry. Laurie wished he could speak to his father, but he had gone into the country on business that morning. He was not expected to return for a couple of days.

  "What could have happened?” asked Lady Firth for the hundredth time. “I should have gone with her. She's so impetuous! What do I tell her dear mother? Her precious child! I cannot bear to think of anything happening to Katherine. Such a splendid girl. Your father and I always hoped you and she would marry some day. Your father was very upset when he thought she would marry Sir Harold."

  Laurie made up his mind. “Mother, I'm going to follow Sir Harold to Paris."

  "But why? Surely, he would not have taken Katherine with him. You don't think they've eloped?"

  "Of course not!” Laurie ran his hands through his hair. “I don't know what to think. I'll take the phaeton. It's faster. I may be able to catch them along the road before they reach the coast."

  "What will I tell your father?” wailed Lady Firth.

  "You'll have to tell him the truth, Mother. Hopefully, Kat and I will be back very soon.” As he said these words, a cold feeling clutched at Laurie's heart. His Kat. He told her he was going to marry Sally. It was an absurd lie. He should have taken better care of her.

  * * * *

  Kate recovered consciousness slowly. She lay still as her eyes adjusted to the dim light and her body to the sway of the carriage. Where were they going? Her head hurt. Pierre must have hit her from behind. Remembering, Kate almost gasped aloud at the thought of it. Sir Harold, his hands about to tear away her gown, saying, “Let's see what treasures I might have been denied."

  The Frenchman interrupting, “Not now, I said, Austerely! We have to get her well away from here first."

  Kate's fingers stealthily felt the neck of her gown. It was still intact. She closed her eyes. She must not allow the two men to know she had awakened.

  A heavy hand landed on her brow. “I hope you didn't hit her too hard, Gascoigne."

  "Well, if I did, we can drop her off somewhere out of town."

  The hand moved to her diaphragm and she felt its heat through her dress. As it cupped one breast, Kate almost screamed. “No, she breathes well."

  "Your obsession with this jeune fille worries me more than a little. It makes us both vulnerable."

  "It will pass. When we get to the inn in Canterbury we will decide what to do."

  Canterbury! That was only a few miles from the village of Broughton. Did she still have her reticule? If they hadn't found the pistol and the paper inside it, she could escape to Broughton Hall and ask Jason for help. While she was planning this, Gascoigne said, “After Canterbury, we make a detour to Broughton village and liaise with our spy."

  Kate almost cried out. Who was the spy there? Could Lord Firth have been right about Jason? No, she could not believe it. She had heard them say they were going to place a spy in the village to watch him. A thought suddenly occurred to her. Could that spy possibly be Angelique? She was French after all. She had come to Broughton Hall at exactly the right time. It was imperative she get to Jason and tell him all she knew. They must have brought her reticule with them. They could not leave it behind. When they reached Canterbury, she would find it.

  * * * *

  Tonight, Jason planned to search the attics, where all the paraphernalia from his and Peter's childhood was stored.

  Having retired to his bedchamber, he slipped out again and made his way upstairs. Brushing away cobwebs, he sat in an old rocker, looking about him. Where would Peter have hidden it? His gaze passed over the boxes of discarded clothes and toys, dismissing them. Over in the corner, covered with boxes was the old chess table. It had served them well before everything turned bad. He jumped up. It had a secret drawer and they'd hidden treasures there. Could it be possible? Jason moved away some boxes, sneezing as the dust rose. He pulled the table out into the light of the candles and turned it, looking for the catch. Yes, there was the small lever. He pulled it and the drawer sprung open. There was something inside. Reaching in, he pulled out a sheaf of papers and smoothed them out. It appeared to be a list of names. Relief, and something far more important, a restored connection to his brother, made his throat contract. Peter had wanted him to find it.

  He had only time to read a few of the names, Austerely among them, before a voice behind him said, “I think you'd better give that to me, Jason."

  The tone of the voice was different, the flirtatious note gone. He turned to find Angelique standing behind him. She stepped forward into the light dressed in a black lace negligee. The creamy crescents of her breasts heaved with emotion above the lace. Her pale hair spilled like a silk waterfall over her shoulders. How often he had wished to see it thus. Jason started. In her hand was a small pistol, pointed at him. Her eyes never left his face as she held out a hand. “Pass it to me, si vous s'il vous plaît!"

  Anger filled his heart and mind, drowning his dreams. “So. I was right to doubt you, Madame."

  "I don't have time for this, Jason. Give me the papers. You cannot allow them to remain here."

  "Would you shoot me, I wonder?"

  "Do not test me, I beg you.” She sounded edgy now and the gun wavered slightly.

  As she spoke, Jason felt behind him, his fingers avoiding the flames to grasp the solid silver base of the candelabra. He threw it to the floor as he ducked. But no shot came. The candles rolled about the floor, only one remained alight, its flame flickering.

  "Mon dieu," she whispered her voice close by him.

  In the dim light, he struck, his fingers taking an iron grip on her wrist. “I don't believe you will shoot me, Angelique, but the way I feel now, it might be a good idea."

  "Jason, please...."

  "Drop it, or I will break your wrist."

  "Non, Jason. You don't know what is at stake here."

  He twisted her wrist and she cried out. The pistol clattered to the ground.

  "You are making a grave mistake."

  "Am I? Then you can tell me all about it,” he replied coolly, picking up the pistol from the floor. She was rubbing her wrist as he replaced the candles. “We'll go downstairs, I think. Somewhere comfortable. There's a fire lit in your bed chamber, which will do nicely."

  The Blue Suite was a perfect foil for Angelique, Jason thought, as they entered. Blue silk bed hangings, the walls papered in cornflowers. It might have been designed with her in mind.

  "Your maid has gone to bed?"

  Angelique's eyes were wary. “Hours ago."

  The fire was now only embers and the room was chilly. She shivered, pulling the fragile negligee over her shoulders.

  "You may put on something warmer if you wish. But I must say I'd rather you didn't."

  Jason threw a log on the fire. He dragged two chairs closer as the flames caught, while holding the pistol lightly in his hand. He pulled the papers from where he'd tucked them in his shirt, but made no attempt to look at them. His eyes were on her face.

  "So, you and my brother were both spies. Was that the attraction?"

  She shook her head and sighed. “No. I loved him. And it is not as you think. If I believed you trusted me...."

  "You give me little reason to trust you."

  "There is another reason I left Peter."

  "And what was that?"

  "I met you.” Angelique stood.

  Jason caught his breath at the vision of loveliness standing before him. Her words were intoxicating and he ached to make love to her. Her bed was only a couple of steps away and he now had the papers. But something held him back. Was it the knowledge that it would be no triumph to take her like this?

  "It grows late,” she said as if reading his mind. “I'd like to sleep now. Might we discuss this in the morning?"

  Controlling his desire, his voice was abrupt and cold. “Seeing I have your pistol and the papers, I think I can safely assume you'll still be here. Bonne nuit, Angelique.” He went to the door a
nd gave her a brief bow before shutting it behind him.

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  Chapter Twelve

  Pretending to be unconscious was becoming almost impossible. Kate's legs and back ached from being in a cramped position, but she was afraid to move. When the carriage pulled into a post-inn on the outskirts of Canterbury, she decided she had to. She moaned and sat up, rubbing her head.

  "You still live,” said Sir Harold. “We have arrived at an inn. If you are a good girl you will be left alone and given your dinner."

  Kate spied her reticule in the corner of the seat and grabbed it. She felt the heaviness of the pistol and the reassuring rustle of paper. Thank heavens they hadn't noticed.

  "One word or action out of place and you're dead,” said Pierre in a dispassionate voice. She knew he meant every word.

  "I'm hungry,” she said, realizing it was true. She hadn't eaten since breakfast and she would need strength to carry out her plans. Her head still felt woolly and her fingers kept returning to the sore bump on her head.

  "I like a woman who appreciates her food. It often means she has an appetite for other things,” said Sir Harold. Kate's stomach tightened in fear, but she allowed him to take her arm and guide her to the private parlor they had engaged for the evening.

  She tucked into the thick vegetable soup, dipping in chunks of crusty bread. As she ate, she watched the two men. They sat apart from her, their voices low. She caught the odd word, enough to know that due to the full moon, they had arranged to meet their contact at the crossroads near Broughton Village at midnight. That was barely a mile from Broughton Hall. Who would that contact be? Kate could not bring herself to believe it was Jason. She wondered if they would take her with them. There'd been quite an argument concerning her. Sir Harold wished to take her to Paris. Pierre, she was sure, had something more sinister in mind. The food warmed her, but the icy feeling in her chest remained. She kept her reticule close by her. It gave her comfort. She would wait for the right time to use it.

  As they departed the inn, the clock in the parlor struck eleven thirty. Outside, the bitter wind added to her fear, causing her to shiver violently. She had only a thin pelisse over her walking dress. Pierre tied her hands together with twine, but not before Kate tucked her reticule down beside her. He cruelly gagged her mouth with a knotted kerchief and tied another over her eyes. Twenty minutes later, the carriage slowed and stopped. The doors opened and she heard the two men leave the vehicle. Pierre had tied her hands in front of her, allowing Kate to pull aside the tight blindfold. It was a clear night and the moon lit up the landscape. Off in a thicket she could just make out three figures, but they were too far away to see clearly, their voices low.