My Seduction

by Connie Brockway

  Kate waited. He had lost himself in the story, no longer simply providing her with information, but putting a perspective on his past.

  “There was a man in her employ willing to relay information about Napoleon’s associates, his schedule, even his correspondence. We were to meet with him. But before we could—indeed, before we even knew his name—we were caught, accused of spying, and imprisoned.”

  “And you believe that one of your companions, or this French priest, revealed your intentions?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the day they led Douglas to the guillotine, the warden told us that he knew everything: all the contacts we had made, the priests we met with, the name of the French ship captain who brought us across, even the tavern owner in whose place we sheltered. And all those people were dead. Betrayed. He took especial delight in telling us we had not only been betrayed, but we had been betrayed from within.”

  “How can you be sure he was telling you the truth?” Kate asked. “He may have been trying to torture you with suspicion. Trick you into revealing more information.”

  MacNeill shook his head. “There was no more information. He knew everything. Including the oath, which was known to only five men: Douglas, Ram, Dand, myself, and Brother Toussaint, in whom we confided.”

  “It makes no sense. All of you were in that dungeon. All of you suffered.”

  “Did we?” Kit’s gaze met hers. “We were taken away separately when we were interrogated. It’s common practice to separate a man from his fellows, especially when you hope to get information from him. Yes, we all suffered. But did we all suffer to the same extent?”

  “But why betray you?” Kate asked, shaking her head. “No one was released. No one gained anything.”

  “Because the price for his betrayal was to trade his life for ours. He was supposed to have been the sole survivor, don’t you see? The sole wealthy survivor, I presume.” A nasty smile played over Kit’s mouth. “Whoever betrayed us could not live with the thought of his treachery being revealed, even to those he’d betrayed. His ego, his guilt, was too overwhelming. His rewards were to have come after our deaths.

  “Douglas was only the first. The rest of us would have followed shortly, but your father arrived and ruined the plan.”

  “But why kill Douglas and not the rest of you at once?”

  “I can only think the warden wanted to make sure of his informant. Wanted him to see what would happen if he thought to betray France as well as his companions.”

  “You came to my family as a group. If you thought that one of the survivors was the traitor, why did you travel with them? Why didn’t you confront the others?”

  “I did!” he grated out. “We did. But two of us are blameless. Perhaps all of us. Perhaps Brother Toussaint was at that French prison and revealed the information, though I cannot imagine how…” He shook his head. “Suffice to say, accusations were made, and every accusation was met with a denial. Ram and Dand both accused me. I accused both in turn.”

  “How terrible.”

  He ignored her sympathy. “After we made our vow to your family, we, who had been closer than brothers, could not stand to look at one another. We separated, expecting never to meet again. Only…”

  “Only …?”

  “Only I could not leave it there. For three years it has preyed on me. How can I trust myself if I cannot trust my past? How can I trust my judgment, my emotions, and the loyalties upon which I founded my entire life when it might be a lie? I have to know.”

  He looked away from her. “And now I have added impetus.”

  “Then… why didn’t you stay?” she asked, confused. The answers to his questions had seemingly been within his grasp, and he had opted to leave them behind. “Why didn’t you look for whoever was in the castle?”

  “Because I promised I would see you safely to your destination. And you are ill, and I can’t take any chance with your health by delaying a minute longer than necessary.” He flicked the reins across Doran’s rump as though reminded of the need for haste.

  “There. I have answered your questions. Your right to know has been appeased.” He sounded unfriendly. His gaze stayed away from her. “Now rest. We’ll be at St. Bride’s by nightfall.”

  NINE

  MAKING NEW FRIENDS

  “WHAT IS THAT?” Kate whispered without lifting her head from Kit’s shoulder. She’d awoken a few minutes ago to find herself looking up into a pair of small dark eyes, fleshy pink cheeks, and a mouth rounded in an O of silent amazement.

  “Not what,” Kit replied easily. “Who. That is Brother Fidelis.”

  The round, brown-robed man inspecting her nearsightedly edged a little closer. “Merciful heaven, Christian, what is it?”

  “Not what,” Kit repeated with what sounded suspiciously like amusement, “who. This is Mrs. Katherine Blackburn.”

  “A woman!” several male voices gasped as though they had been awaiting confirmation of a terrible suspicion.

  Kate roused herself from her comfortable position nestled against Kit and looked beyond Brother Fidelis to a small group of similarly clad men milling about a short distance away, their faces variously inquisitive and anxious but all, to some degree, shocked.

  She supposed she could understand why. Here she was, dressed in Kit’s oversize shirt and wrapped in his plaid, sprawled in the most abandoned manner against him. She struggled to right herself and—oh! Without any forewarning, the world spun in big circles and pitched her facefirst back into Kit’s arms.

  She’d forgotten how lightheaded she’d been—still was. Though she seemed to be thinking more clearly, and she didn’t feel as cold anymore. Indeed, she felt quite relaxed, and for the first time since she had begun the journey, she realized she wasn’t afraid. She had ceased to be afraid sometime during the story she had forced MacNeill to relate. She had begun to understand the tenor of the man sworn to protect her. Kit MacNeill was not some terrible, cold machine of destruction. In many ways, he was… not unlike her.

  The realization was startling. Confusing. In fact, disturbing.

  Just when she was finally beginning to feel comfortable. She released a deep sigh.

  “What is she saying?”

  “What have you done?”

  “Oh, Christian, you haven’t—”

  “The poor creature—”

  “I haven’t done anything!” Kit said forcefully. “But thank you for the touching demonstration of confidence in my morals.” He swept her neatly into his lap. The movement tipped her world into lazy revolutions. She squeezed her eyes shut and willed it to a standstill. The world did not obey.

  “Now, Christian, we never thought that.”

  “Oh, not that. Just that,” Kit said sarcastically, gathering her closer as he swung his legs over the side of the carriage.

  “Would one of you mind the horse’s head?” Kit leapt to the ground, jolting her. Pinpricks of light sprinkled across her closed lids.

  “Oh!”

  “Christian, what are you doing with that woman?” A new voice, ripe with authority and filled with suspicion, broke through the masculine garble.

  “Holding her.” Kit didn’t sound overly impressed. “And I intend to keep doing so.”

  For a scant second, Kate considered opening her eyes and explaining the situation to the men surrounding them, but she didn’t really feel up to making explanations, and she really didn’t want the world to spin into another orbit, and it was rather nice having someone else cope with matters. Altogether, she was much more comfortable this way. So she kept her eyes closed and her body lax and wondered why she hadn’t ever before recognized the advantages of pretending to faint?

  “I see that,” the authoritative voice said. “What I meant is, why have you brought this woman here? We are a monastic order, Christian. Women are not allowed.”

  “This one is,” Kit replied and began to move forward. “She’s unwell.”

  “What is w
rong with her?” Brother Fidelis asked, compassion replacing his earlier suspicion.

  “Mostly she’s half frozen, but from the feel of her, I’d say a bit starved, too.” He accented his point by jouncing her lightly in his arms. Her world reeled. “Where should I take her?”

  “Christian.” MacNeill stopped. Kate could feel tension tighten his arms and chest.

  “Father Abbot.” The respectful address coming from MacNeill sounded grudging, “I have not brought this young lady here to rob her or compromise her. Nor have I, in spite of the entertainment it would doubtless provide, brought her here that she might peel off her clothes and run amuck through the cloisters.

  “I have brought her here because I had no other choice. Just as you, as a good Christian and a Benedictine priest, have no choice but to take her in. After all, Shepherd”—his deep voice dripped honeyed sarcasm—“she is one very lost, very cold little lamb.”

  She counted five steady heartbeats in the hush following Kit’s challenge, for even in her present state she recognized it as that.

  Then the abbot said, “Sarcasm does not become a man of your education and—”

  “—and breeding?” The question was lightly asked, but something beneath the surface rang hard.

  “I was going to say merit, Christian,” the abbot answered calmly. “As for this young lady, she may stay until she is well enough to travel. And she will be well enough to travel very, very soon. I depend on it, Brother Martin,” he finished sternly, and somewhere someone grumbled.

  “You may take her to the…”—the abbot hesitated—“to the greenhouse. There’s a small shed in the back. I believe there is also a cot.

  “After you have seen this young woman settled, you will do me the favor of coming to my quarters, Christian.” It was not a request.

  “You may depend on it, sir.” It was not a concession.

  Without waiting for further instruction, Kit strode away from the cluster of whispering monks. They’d gone only a few yards before he murmured, “You can open your eyes now; the brown horde is well behind us, and if I know them, and I do, they won’t scratch up enough courage to come calling until after dinner.”

  “How did you know I was awake?” Kate asked, looking up into his face. It was a very hard, grim countenance, carved from a life of hardship and severity. But there was humor, too, in the gaze he turned on her.

  “In spite of the convincing manner in which you’re lolling against my chest?”

  Her head snapped up at that.

  She released an unhappy little sigh. Now, propriety demanded she extricate herself forthwith from his embrace. Though she felt remarkably comfortable with matters just as they were. Still, a lady did what a lady must. “I can walk.”

  “Maybe,” he agreed. “But you wouldn’t want to spoil our performance at this stage. The good brothers already have a most biased view of womanhood. Not that they fault your gender as individuals, mind you. That would be unchristian.

  “They do, however, hold grave misgivings about females in general. They consider them weak and perfidious—but only in an entirely enchanting and morally corrupting sort of way. And only for those poor, misguided sots who fall under their spell.

  “I would not be in the least surprised to discover that even now my immortal and all-too-susceptible soul is being edified by dozens of prayers.”

  “Ah!”

  “Now then, save those gasps of outrage, Mrs. Blackburn. After all, you were pretending to have fainted, and that does rather lend credibility to the good brothers’ assumptions.”

  “You are suggesting that I am perfidious?” she asked, wide-eyed with innocence.

  He smiled. “Just so. And if you were to suddenly leap from my arms and begin marching merrily along, it would only confirm their suspicion that women are not to be trusted.”

  “Maybe they aren’t,” Kate said. “Maybe you are in dire threat of being corrupted by my weak and perfidious nature. I should never forgive myself for putting such an innocent as you at such risk. I insist you put me down.”

  He broke into a rich laugh. “Kate Blackburn, who would have suspected you capable of such brazen cheek?”

  His laughter disarmed her. For a moment, his green eyes had looked warm with merriment.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said, wishing he would laugh again.

  “What I meant is, young widows of impeccable lineage with an eye to reentering society shouldn’t bedevil commoners.” His expression altered subtly, his gaze becoming both lambent and predatory. “It could be dangerous. You never know what they might do.”

  He lifted her higher in his arms, drawing her closer to his mouth. She shrank back, though part of her wanted to meet his bold taunting in kind, stay where she was, see what he would do. Fear returned, but it was not fear of Kit MacNeill. It was fear of herself, of what she might be capable of with the slightest encouragement. Thank God she was a coward.

  “Do you?” he whispered, staring down into her eyes.

  “No,” she breathed, and looked away, forcing herself to take in her surroundings.

  To Kate’s uneducated eye, St. Bride’s did not seem much of an abbey, just a tiny village built in a rectangle and surrounded by walls. A low stone building formed one side of the rectangle, its roof covering an open front passage that gave on to a dozen or so doorways. Adjoining this, at the corner, rose a two-story edifice with a steeply pitched roof. The chapel, she supposed. Aligned along the remaining two walls were a series of structures of various sizes and ages, none being distinguished by any particular architectural style and all having obviously been built as need dictated and available material allowed.

  In fact, the only thing distinguishing the place at all was its setting. For above and surrounding the monastery on all sides were glorious snowcapped mountains. To the east, sunlight streamed down the mountain’s white flanks, warming the small settlement nestled at its feet and allowing, even in November, a few patches of green to hold against the browning of winter. The cold wind that had been their constant companion over the last two days had completely vanished, and the air felt subtle and soft. They must be in a deep valley that created a sort of false climate.

  “It’s… it’s not so cold here, is it?” she murmured.

  “No. It never is,” Kit answered, barely pausing before a stout door in a stone wall. He turned and backed his way through.

  They emerged into a rose garden tended as well as any in all England. A pea-gravel path encircled a marble-mantled well, its circumference interrupted at regular intervals by bare arbors. Flanking either side of the door through which they’d come were terraced beds newly ticked beneath thick layers of leaves, awaiting winter’s assault, while the entire back portion of the garden, she was amazed to see, had been covered over by glass, forming what she was certain must be the most isolated, if not northernmost, greenhouse in all of Great Britain.

  Kit carried her straight toward this structure and nudged open the greenhouse door with his knee. Kate’s breath caught. While outside, the brown-gray mantle of winter had been donned, within the greenhouse the last vestiges of summer’s regalia had yet to be doffed. Climbing roses coursed up the greenhouse’s fretwork, forming a ceiling where still a few roses, red and carmine and shell pink, hung. But they were the last survivors of this year’s bounty, old sentinel blooms pushed past their natural life span. Even the tiny rush of air caused by the opening of the door had sent a swirl of brown-rimmed petals drifting down from above.

  Kit moved through the magnificent blooms without pausing, coming shortly to a small shed with a divided door. Inside was a small rope cot covered with some blankets and several shelves supporting trowels and implements and pots containing grafts in varying states of growth.

  Without fanfare, Kit deposited her on the cot and straightened, reaching for an earthenware jug by his feet. He sniffed it and then poured the contents into a stoneware mug and offered it to her. “Here. Drink.”

  She accepted t
he mug gratefully, gulping great mouthfuls of the clear cool water, not caring when it dribbled down her chin. She was parched. She finished and handed him the mug, self-consciously dabbing her wet chin and mouth against her sleeve. She looked out the top half of the doorway which Kit had left open into the green tangle of roses.

  “This is… fantastical.”

  Kit’s gaze followed hers. “We built it,” he murmured, as if recalling something he’d forgotten.

  “Who?”

  “Me and Ramsey and Dand …and Douglas.” He looked down at her. “This is where I was raised. Where I learned to speak, read, write. And where we were trained.”

  “But not to be priests,” she recalled.

  He laughed at that. “No. Not even Father Tarkin could reconcile the idea of priests as assassins.”

  “Assassins?” He’d shocked her yet again.

  He shrugged. “What do you call someone you’ve trained to be used as a weapon? What did you think we were ultimately to do at Malmaison?”

  Before she could reply, he was gone.

  Assassin.

  It was none of her concern. Not the terrible word he’d applied to himself, nor the haunted expression in his eyes, nor the bitter amusement with which he watched her turn from him.

  Thank God he’d said that, she told herself fiercely. Here she’d been thinking him a tame lamb, when at every step of their journey she had had abundant proof that he was every inch a wolf. She wouldn’t forget again. The past few days’ stress and lack of sleep and hunger had conspired to turn her unwilling dependency on MacNeill into something— No! Nothing had been turned into less than nothing.

  Christian MacNeill would soon be gone from her life. She didn’t have to think about his past or his future. Nor should she. She had her own history and future to concern her.

  A tap on the side of the shed caught her attention. She looked around and saw a pair of monks crouched over either end of Grace’s trunk, panting from the exertion of carrying it here. She had completely forgotten Grace’s trunk. Indeed, she had nearly forgotten why she was on this journey in the first place and what the hoped-for end of that journey would be. She would do well to remind herself.