My Seduction

by Connie Brockway

“Mr. MacNeill knows all of this, you say?” she asked artlessly.

  His eyes opened and fell upon her guileless visage. What was she up to?

  “If he doesn’t, it isn’t for any lack of effort on my part. All those boys were well schooled in horticulture. Give them something to occupy their brains, is what the abbot said.”

  “And why did they need to have their minds occupied? I would have thought Latin and history and geography would have been enough.”

  Busy, she’d been. What else had she found out?

  “Too sharp by half, the lot of them. Smartest lads I ever seen. Taken individual or as a whole, but truth be told, you had to take them as a whole.”

  “Oh?”

  “They held together tighter than sin does to Satan— God grant us deliverance from his wiles—four smart foundlings.” He snorted. “What does one want smarts for? Where did it get any of them? Smarts only means you know to a degree exactly how miserable you be. Better to be like Brother John, who only suspects, and dimly at that, what a miserable place the world is.”

  Kate must have raised one of those delicately arched brows, for when Brother Martin spoke again, he grumbled. “A man is entitled to his opinion.”

  “Of course.” There was no censure in her voice. “But if a man, or a woman, doesn’t know the extent of their misery, how can they appreciate the glory of salvation?”

  “You, Mrs. Blackburn, would have made a good Jesuit,” Brother Martin said darkly.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” she answered. “But we were talking about Mr. MacNeill.”

  “You were talking about Mr. MacNeill. Again. I was talking about flowers.”

  “Again.”

  “Humph.” He could hear Brother Martin’s gruff amusement. So she’d managed to charm the old woman-hater. And in two days. God alone knew what had befallen the other monks. They were probably all at confession relating all sorts of interesting and sinful musings. God knew, he ought to be there himself for some of the thoughts he’d indulged.

  “You are most enlightening on any number of complex subjects.”

  “You’re thinking of Mr. MacNeill agin.”

  “Am I?”

  Was she? And why should she be doing that? Kit wondered. But he already knew the answer. She had told him once that she would be whatever the situation demanded. Apparently, she felt this situation demanded she learn something of Kit’s past.

  It was time to put an end to her delving. He moved out from the shadows, studying his little berobed temptress. Her head was tilted at a nearly flirtatious angle, and her lashes held the light at their very tips, as though dipped in gold. Brother Martin, even from a distance, had the unhappily bemused expression of an utterly captivated man.

  What had she learned from the monks? he wondered. That he was a prostitute’s by-blow? That he’d been in more fights than any of the other lads? And what did that knowledge reap for her? How would she use it? Because a person does not acquire something she has no intention of using—another lesson the world had been eager to teach him after he’d left St. Bride’s.

  Yes, it was good that he’d left her for a while. He’d forgotten for a short space what the world could do to you if your life became entangled too much with another’s. Better to be alone.

  Brother Martin had picked a little twig from the ground and was using it as a pointing stick, but the palsy that had plagued him years before had only grown worse, and his hand trembled. Without calling any undue attention to it, Kate covered the gnarled, liver-spotted old hand with her own, steadying it.

  A spurt of jealousy rippled through Kit, and he smiled at the absurdity of it. But the fact remained that she had never touched him. Not of her own volition. Even when she’d bandaged him, duty alone had inspired her.

  He wondered what those long, delicate hands would feel like flowing over his skin, his arms, his chest. Were a lady’s hands more or less adept at love-making? Would soft palms and uncalloused fingertips provide more pleasure than a tavern girl’s rougher counterparts? Or did being a lady or a tavern maid have nothing to do with it, and would Kate Blackburn’s touch be eviscerating no matter what she was or where she came from?

  But it was impossible to separate it out like that. Because where she came from had fashioned who she was, and that was a lady. Far above his common touch.

  She stopped suddenly, as if sensing his scrutiny, and lifted her head, doelike, looking about. Slowly she turned her head, and her eyes met his. They gladdened with the smile already curving her lips. He resisted, feeling her draw on him like steel tailings to a magnet.

  “MacNeill,” she called softly.

  “Ma’am.”

  “You’ve come back earlier than the abbot said to expect you.” She sounded happy. She sounded pleased. Perversely, it angered him, even though he knew it was unfair. What right did she have to welcome him? What right did she have to make him want that welcome?

  Sometimes, to rid oneself of madness, madness needs to be indulged. Or so he told himself as he went to her, an idea forming with lightning rapidity. If he could just taste her, he would discover that she tasted like every other woman, that she felt like every other woman. Then he could release himself from wanting to… experience her. Then he could get on with the business of revenge.

  “There was no reason to keep searching for something that wasn’t there, Mrs. Blackburn.” Like you. You aren’t really here, are you? You’re just marking time.

  “I’m sorry you were disappointed.”

  “There are compensations for returning,” he said steadily, his gaze sharp on her face. Look at me. Want me. Just a little.

  Her extraordinary eyes widened, as if he’d voiced his thoughts. Good. He didn’t want any unsuspecting victim. Let her be put on notice: he intended to have her. Just a little of her. Just a kiss.

  “Back, are you, Christian?” Brother Martin said sourly, unhappy to have his tête-à-tête interrupted.

  “Yes.” He didn’t take his eyes off Kate. “I trust you are well, Mrs. Blackburn?”

  “Of course she’s well,” Brother Martin harrumphed. “She’s had a tisane of primrose, mallow, and lemon balm three days running. Got rid of her sore throat straight off. Then we fed her. Poor thing was near half starved.” His gaze clearly faulted Kit for her condition.

  “I can see she is in the best of health.”

  Her gaze fell before his, and a faint color tinted her cheeks.

  He turned his attention to ridding himself of the monk. “You have found a new pupil, Brother Martin?”

  The old monk sniffed. “Mrs. Blackburn grew restive waiting for you, and in the spirit of hospitality, I thought it only right to provide her with some company while you went off and did whatever it is you did and left her stranded here. Poor lamb.”

  Poor lamb, indeed. Kate had lifted her head during Brother Martin’s diatribe, her dutifully wounded expression contradicted by bright, merry eyes.

  “You needn’t justify your presence here, Brother Martin,” Kit said. “One has only to look at Mrs. Blackburn, and any further explanation is quite unnecessary.” Her blush deepened charmingly.

  Brother Martin had no answer for this. To deny it would hurt his “lamb,” and to affirm it would be to admit to an earthly fancy. So instead he scowled and sought another topic.

  “Mrs. Blackburn wondered if you remembered any of the things I taught you.” He angled his head up, watching Kit with the blithe acrimony of a rival. “Do you?”

  “Oh, a thing or two. You’re not going to test me?” he asked in mock despair. Failing Brother Martin’s quizzes had been a painful business. The old malcontent might look as frail as a glass straw, but he’d wielded a switch with expertise.

  “If we were in my garden, I would,” Brother Martin said. “But this is Brother Fidelis’s. I always said as how he cosseted you boys as much as these prickly pretties here. Never saw the sense of it, wasting all this effort on roses when pennyroyal and feverfew and lady’s mantle and goo
d, medicinal plants struggle outside.”

  “Roses thrive only in rarefied sites,” Kit said. His gaze stayed on Kate as he spoke. “Put them out in the real world, and they die.”

  “Then why go through all the trouble?” she asked.

  “At first,” he said softly, “because we had no choice. Later, well, you wouldn’t want something so bonny to suffer simply for want of a little effort.”

  He didn’t like his own answer, she could see it in his quick frown. “I suppose Brother Fidelis has taken you on a tour of the garden?”

  “No.”

  “An oversight we must rectify. It’s a fascinating place, a rose garden. Troublesome and hard work to maintain.”

  “But worth the effort.”

  “Sometimes. For the brief season they bloom. And it is a very brief season. The end is always bittersweet.” He lightened his words with a quick smile, charming and ruthless. Trepidation danced a warning along Kate’s flesh.

  What was he up to? The man who’d left the abbey was not the one who’d returned. This Kit was hardeyed and sexual, predatory and focused. On her. He held out his hand, waiting until she placed her own in it to draw her to her feet. “Brother Martin?”

  The old man struggled to his feet. “What? You expect me to shamble along in your wake while you spout a bunch of Latin names for ridiculously cosseted flowers? I have more important work to do.” He shot a superior, telling look at Kate. “With my herbs.” And with a harrumph of disdain, he plodded off toward the door.

  “Shall we?”

  She cocked her head. “Thank you, yes. But be forewarned, I expect to be fascinated.”

  He secured her hand in the crook of his arm. “I shall endeavor not to disappoint.”

  “You know, Mr. MacNeill,” she said after a pause, “you profess to be nothing more than an ill-bred orphan, and yet you sometimes evince manners that would be more suited to a fine drawing room than a garret.”

  “Stage dressing,” he assured her. “Nothing more. Over the years I’ve picked up a few manners that I dust off now and again. One of my—my earlier companions had a tongue so subtle and smooth he could seduce a song from a cat.”

  “I don’t know whether to believe you or not.”

  “As you will, ma’am,” he said, his manner light and accommodating, his gaze frankly admiring. Almost as if—

  A sudden suspicion caused her to stop, and she spoke without thinking. “Are you trying to seduce me, Mr. MacNeill?”

  He, too, stopped. His lips twitched as if he might laugh, but when he looked down at her, his eyes were utterly sober. “Why, yes, Mrs. Blackburn, I am. Does the prospect alarm you?”

  “Yes,” she said at once. “It does.”

  “Ah. Regrettable and I should think unnecessary, though from my position, I’d much rather your alarm be warranted.”

  “Should I call out for help?” she asked, trying valiantly to sound as sophisticated as he.

  He bent a sardonic eye on her. “I believe the word used was seduce, not rape. You are in no danger from me. Well, that’s not precisely true,” he allowed. “But you are only in as much danger as you allow yourself to be.”

  “I see,” she said breathlessly.

  “Good. We understand each other, then.” He tucked her hand back in the crook of his arm and would have begun to walk again, but she remained firmly planted. He looked down at her.

  “Can I convince you not to attempt to seduce me?”

  His brows drew together for a few seconds as he considered her request. “No,” he finally said. “No. I do not think you can.”

  “Then my options are …?”

  “To continue our walk and let me test my skills. Or not.”

  Her heart had begun racing the moment he’d stated his intent. Now it galloped in her throat.

  His smile grew rueful. “Come, Mrs. Blackburn. My skills, even by my own decidedly prejudiced account, are not so great.”

  She didn’t believe him. He looked entirely capable of seduction. Big, masculine, bold, and healthy. He’d washed his hair recently, she realized. It gleamed like molten bronze, and his tanned, lean countenance had been scraped clean of the stubble it had worn since she’d met him at the White Rose. He looked dangerously appealing, alarmingly enticing, and— She gulped. She wanted to continue on with him. For a little while.

  “I really am interested in the roses,” she pronounced stiffly.

  “Of course you are.” His tone was warm with humor, but this time when he moved forward, her hand firmly caught beneath his, she went without resistance.

  They moved down the pea-gravel path to the glass house, where he opened the door, waiting for her to enter before following her in. Not many of the roses inside were still blooming, though all of them retained their green foliage. He stopped first beside a small shrubby plant, bristling with thousands of needlelike thorns. “Rosa gallica. Judging from its size and habit, this would be the Rose of Lancaster. It is the only rose that finds favor with Brother Martin, as it is also known as the Apothecary Rose.”

  “And what of its bloom?”

  “It blooms profusely. But only once.” He pointed to a similarly shaped shrub next to it. “This is Rosa Mundi. It is a Gallica, also, but its petals are striped with red.”

  “I’ve seen this,” Kate said with an air of discovery.

  “I dare say you have. They are a very ancient variety.” He moved on, passing several more low-growing plants before stopping beside one taller and with more elongated leaves than the others. “Here would be a Damask, brought to Britain from Persia.”

  She leaned over to search for a bloom and was disappointed to find none. She straightened to find he’d moved close behind her. She could feel his breath stirring the hair at the nape of her neck.

  She froze. Her heartbeat grew heavy as a drumbeat in her chest. From back and shoulder, to hip and thigh, she was tingling, alive to his proximity.

  “When you sit at your toilette some far-distant morning”—his richly accented burr was a low purr, reaching into her thoughts and caressing her—“and dab some scent here”—he touched the side of her throat and her breath checked, on a gasp or a sigh she couldn’t have said—“or here”—his fingertips skated up her throat and stroked the tender skin behind her ear with gossamer lightness—“remember the roses sacrificed by the thousands to distill that fragrance, and grieve a little for their loss.”

  He shouldn’t take such liberties. She shouldn’t allow him to. And yet she couldn’t seem to move. A sheath of awareness shimmered along her skin’s surface. His head dipped, his lips hovered inches above her throat. She trembled, swaying toward him.

  “But isn’t that the way of it?” he whispered, the movement of his mouth causing his lips to flirt with the nape of her neck. “The world must sacrifice beauty for beauty’s sake.”

  She held her breath, waiting for him to kiss her. He didn’t. She felt the teasing imprint of his smile against the curve where neck flowed into shoulder, and then he lifted his head, moved to her side, and secured her hand in his arm. Disappointment flooded through her. He started forward, and she went with him, a little breathless, much confused. He only guided her to a side path and from there to a patch of bushes as tall as she, their foliage silvery green dotted with bright persimmon-colored rose hips.

  “Rosa alba,” he instructed as if he hadn’t touched her, as if she hadn’t leaned into his caress, willing him to give more. “Supposedly a Roman introduction. When it flowers, its blooms are, as you might guess, primarily white. This particular one would be alba semiplena, historically assumed to be the White Rose of York.

  “Come along, I’m saving the best for last,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her beneath a small trellis covered in heavy green leaves. On the other side, a smaller path took them down a short, circuitous path where the green foliage grew brighter, glossier. Above them, the glass panes dripped with moisture, as if something breathing dwelt back here. The loamy scent of wet soil gave way to a
different fragrance— not the clove spice of the roses she knew but a sweeter, more piercing aroma.

  He stopped suddenly, smiling down at her, and lightly clasped her shoulders. Then he spun her around, pulling her sharply back against him and clamp his hands over her eyes. She reached up, disconcerted.

  “Wait,” he said.

  He moved forward into her, herding her with his body as he covered her eyes, forcing her to either walk or endure the intimacy of his thighs against her buttocks. Tension swirled up her throat, and another sort of tension pooled in her belly as the half-remembered pangs of desire taunted her with their slow reawakening.

  It wasn’t more than a few seconds; it seemed like hours. Even through his shirt, she gauged the exact degree of heat he radiated, felt the impression of each long finger covering her eyes, was cognizant of his lower body brushing against her skirts and, mortifyingly, knew she sought the evidence of his own desire in that contact, and even more humiliatingly, felt the thrill of undeniable feminine triumph when she felt him, hard and aroused, against her.

  Finally he stopped. His velvet lips swept against her ear. “ ‘And I will make thee beds of roses. And a thousand fragrant posies.’ ”

  A scarred young soldier who quoted Christopher Marlowe? She could not make the pieces fit. His hands dropped away, and she opened her eyes and promptly forgot her consternation.

  They stood in a small bower of greenery spangled over with sprays of bright golden yellow roses, their heavy heads bobbing in the slight movement of air. She took a step forward, and the lush fragrance she’d noted before swept up and over her. She looked down. She’d stepped on a carpet of glistening petals, crushing their ambrosial silkiness and releasing an otherworldly scent that filled her nostrils.

  “What are they?” she breathed. “How can they be blooming now? Is it magic?”

  “Of a sort. These are the children of the rose we brought your family.”

  “Children?”

  “The offspring of your rose and a bonny Damask lady, a perpetually blooming rose.”

  “It never stops blooming?” she asked, reaching up to a spray of flowers. At once a shower of golden petals fluttered down, shimmering in the light. She drew back sharply and looked over her shoulder to find Kit watching her, an unreadable expression on his face.