The Leading Lady (Half Moon House Series)

by Deb Marlowe

  But this—he surrounded her, big and masculine and hard. Demanding. It was utterly impossible not to respond.

  He moaned. She could feel the rising wildness in him. His mouth seared its way down to her throat and his hand crept up to cup her breast. Her nipple rolled beneath the palm of his hand and all her muscles tightened against the incredible jolt of passion arcing suddenly through her.

  He towered over her. She should be wary of the complete control he held over the situation, over her body and its reactions. Instead, she wanted more.

  So dangerous, this feeling of being frantically wanted and desperately needed—and also safe, protected, cherished. Free to desperately want in return. This was her opium—she recognized it at once. The heat and taste and smell of him shut down all rational thinking, stole her determination and will power, replaced it with a deep, aching need that settled low and deep in her churning belly.

  It should have been a warning. It wasn’t. It wasn’t even deterrent enough to keep her from thrusting her breast further into his hand.

  A clatter sounded. The steward, entering the passage with his cart. Another clash, closer. Finally the noise was enough to blow a distracting breeze through the honeyed fog they’d wrapped themselves in.

  They stilled. Disengaged. She fought a moan of protest. He pulled away. Blowing like a set of matching, heaving bellows, they faced each other across inches, breathing each other’s air.

  A quick knock and the door latch rattled.

  He stepped back again. Away.

  The steward entered, muttering apologies.

  Callie forced a smile, grasped frantically for a semblance of composure, the illusion of control. “Thank you, Tru. For all that you’ve taught me today.” Callie, Chloe, new or old, she could never let him know just how thoroughly he’d unhinged her.

  He lifted his coat and gave a short bow. “Of course.” Irony invaded his tone. “It would appear that we both still have much to learn.” He stepped around the servant, but paused at the door long enough to raise a brow in her direction. “I hope you pass a restful night.”

  “Thank you.”

  Alone. She needed time and isolation to face the blows dealt by that kiss. To shore up the barriers that she’d thought were unassailable. Under no circumstances could he know that, however. She rallied, tried for just a hint of mockery. “I’m sure it will be as peaceful as your own.” With a nod, she bid him a good night and watched him go.

  Chapter Seven

  A woman owned the little country inn. A woman with no claims to birth or education. But she had the gentlest touch and the biggest heart I’ve ever known. Her name was Pearl.

  --from the Journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

  The Spanish Lady weathered the storm very well in the shelter of Le Havre. Anxious about his schedule, the captain would not allow anyone to disembark. They passed a restless, choppy night aboard and were off with the morning tide. The winds were against them, though, setting the captain to swearing and the crew to scrambling. As the morning dawned clear and fresh after the storm, the ship was tacking north toward the Cotentin Peninsula.

  Tru spent the long day heckling Stoneacre about his tender sensibilities, consulting with the earl on his disguise and making notes on the order and precedence of the jobs that would need tackling once he took over the running of the inn and tavern.

  In truth, it seemed a straightforward enough task to him, but he was hard put to find another way to avoid Callie Grant.

  He caught a glimpse or two of her, as she took the air on deck. That was close enough. He watched her, lifting her face to catch the sea breeze, interacting easily with the crew now, and he remembered the words she’d spoken to him, that first night in Dover. She knew enough about men to categorize them, she’d said. Stuff them safely into their respective boxes, he’d interpreted.

  He suffered a pang of envy. He wished like hell he could categorize her.

  Everything about the girl defied such a thing. No wonder the royal side of her family ignored her. She didn’t fit with the women of that class, all playing the same game, following the rules and filling their spot in the play. But neither did she resemble the women he’d met in London’s harsher, darker haunts. Women were ambitious players there, too, though they fought all the harder for outcomes that put their very lives at stake.

  Callie, with her zeal, her concern for others—and with her damned tempting kisses—was different from them all. Not hedged in by rules or prodded by the dark necessity of survival. Not defined by others’ view of her.

  Who defined her, then?

  He supposed she defined herself.

  Hell and damnation. Imagine that.

  He couldn’t. The thought both called him and repelled him. It made him uncomfortable, just as she did.

  God, yes. That he could define. She set him on edge. Made him feel like a schoolboy being handed his first set of algebraic equations, a halfling with his first wench dropped in his lap. Interested, willing, but unsure of the direction to take.

  He didn’t like it. Preventing that precise feeling of uncertainty was the reason he was here. He hated being unsure of himself. It took him back, far back to the days after the death of his parents. They’d been dark days, filled with anger and grief even before his brother had been swept away to fulfill his new destiny as Duke of Aldmere. Darker still, afterwards, when Tru had been left alone, lost and bewildered, shuffled aside and shipped off to school as if he’d become extraneous.

  He shook his head to dispel such wayward thoughts. None of it mattered, in any case. He could not touch the girl again. No matter how sweetly she asked. No matter how he dreamed of the soft touch of her skin, the hot, sweet taste of her, or the feel of that wondrous bosom in his hands.

  For one thing—she was under Hestia Wright’s protection. And though he may have proved himself several kinds of careless, he wasn’t idiot enough to incur that lady’s wrath.

  For another—Hestia had placed the girl under his protection—and while Marstoke might have made him a fool, despoiling innocents was the marquess’s failing, not his. Tru would never let that man—or any situation he found himself forced into—turn him into such a villain.

  A moment’s distraction was one thing, but he could not let her ruin his focus.

  Marstoke—that was the focus. The urgency was back in his blood. Hurry, it sang to him. He had to find the marquess and bring him back to justice. He had to close this unfortunate chapter of his life so that he could move forward. Or back, he might say. All he wanted was to go back to that simpler time when no dark cloud of suspicion lived over his head, when no man hesitated to take his hand, when laughter came easily and it was a simple thing to look in the mirror.

  “It’s ready.” Stoneacre had found him lurking amidships, behind a coil of rope and beneath the bow rail. The man still looked a little green about the edges. “Come on down and we’ll finish up your disguise.”

  Tru tromped below behind the earl. All of their gear—and a few extras procured by Stoneacre—had been packed and stacked and stood ready to be off loaded. All save a smaller trunk sitting on the bed.

  Stoneacre opened it. “Here we are.” He held up a jar full of black paste. “Over by the wash basin, if you please. This can be messy. You’ll have to reapply every day or so—make sure you do so with plenty of water at hand.”

  He set to work, showing Tru how to rub a bit of the stuff up from the root of his hair. It didn’t take long. Tru surveyed the effect in a looking glass, surprised by the difference. Besides being darker, the stuff made his hair feel thicker and helped it hold a slightly messier, more casual style.

  “Not bad,” Stoneacre remarked, watching him critically as he wiped his hands. “Now, these.” He reached in and pulled out two long, twin strips of short, dark hair. “Facial hair might not be fashionable, but it will hide that scar.”

  Tru paid close attention as the earl taught him to apply his new sideburns. To finish it off, he added subtle
cosmetics that would emphasize his few lines and creases and add age to his countenance.

  “Easy enough,” he remarked. “How do I look?”

  “Dashing. Perhaps you’ll start a new fashion.” Stoneacre held up another piece, a flimsy patch, rough textured and painted to look like reddened flesh. “Also, because we’re covering one identifying physical mark, it would be wise to give you another. One covered scar might not give pause to the curious, but add another in a different spot and they’ll start to doubt themselves.”

  He took Tru’s hand and flattened it on the bunk. “Place it here, on the back of your hand, visible but disappearing upward beneath your cuffs. No one will know it doesn’t extend up your arm.” He raised a brow. “A burn scar—from a stable fire at your family’s inn. You heroically saved the livestock, of course.”

  “Of course,” Tru agreed.

  “You’ll have to keep a coat on, but that’s as befits the owner of the place. And be careful to place your pieces correctly and in the exact same spot every day. Consistency is the key to a good disguise.” Stoneacre bent over the box again and tossed something at him.

  Automatically, Tru reached out to catch the bag. He hefted it. “Money?” And no small amount either. “What am I to do with this?”

  “Keep back enough to purchase passage back home—for three.” The earl waved off the start of Tru’s question. “It never hurts to be prepared.” He shrugged one shoulder. “As for the rest, hire staff, buy supplies, use it for all of the expenses a man would have as he sets up his own enterprise.”

  “Damn Marstoke for making this so convoluted. It’s a damned lot of money and work.” Tru took his own turn at cutting Stoneacre off. “I know, I understand how important it is to make it all utterly real. But what of the innocent people I’m about to involve? What happens to them when we grab Marstoke and head home?”

  “We’ll do what we can to take care of them. Compensate them for their lost prospects, at the very least.”

  It seemed like the very least to Tru.

  He said no more, and they both turned as a noise sounded at the door. It opened enough to allow Callie Grant to peek around it.

  “We’re nearly there,” she informed them. She stepped inside. “But the captain says we’ll have to wait until morning before we can have our papers processed.”

  Tru tried not to stare. He knew her high-necked, form fitting gown of sturdy blue wool was meant to make her look staid and respectable—but with that figure it only served to make a man imagine himself peeling the layers away.

  Her eyes widened as she looked Tru’s way. “Oh! You do look different! Almost piratical.” She blushed a little.

  He bowed. Damned if he wasn’t afraid he’d match her blush. “Now that sounds like a role I’d relish,” he said with a grin. “Alas, I am merely to play host to pirates, sailors, spies and other assorted scalawags.”

  “And I’m to feed them. As quickly as possible, according to Lord Stoneacre.” She gave the earl a nod. “I’m ready to get started.”

  “We are all ready.” Stoneacre closed his trunk and stowed it with the rest. Stepping close, he took her hand. “Remember—Chloe Chaput has had experience with this type of venture. Don’t hesitate to enter the situation with authority.”

  She laughed, a husky, ironic rasp—and Tru tightened. Everywhere.

  “Oh, ask anyone at Half Moon House and they’ll tell you I have no problem asserting my authority.” Her mouth quirked. “If anyone questions me, I’ll just tell them that that’s how it is done in Franche-Comté.”

  “Perfect.” The earl nodded. “Now I’ll disembark separately. Watch for me later in the day, though. I’ll stop by and we’ll find a way for us to keep in touch.

  Tru met the earl’s direct gaze as he clapped him on the shoulder. “The victory will be ours this time, Tru. Between the two of us—and your lovely wife—we’ll have Marstoke in no time.”

  Tru squeezed his arm. “I damned well don’t intend to go back without him,” he vowed.

  “Nor do I.” The earl nodded at them both. “Just a few more hours, and we’ll make it happen.”

  * * *

  It didn’t happen right away. Tru’s impatience was on display the next morning, making him fidget at the delay while the harbor men checked their documents and sent them on through customs.

  Currently, they were waiting. Again. As someone checked some small item on their forged papers. Again. He paced while Callie adopted a stance of bored patience—and together they struck just the right note, he thought.

  They stood at a window of the small, cluttered office. His heart beat a little faster as he pressed near, playing the attentive husband, while she looked calm and collected and damned beautiful as she watched the ceaseless activity on the docks.

  He wasn’t alone in his awareness, however. It lived in the air between them, dancing through the dust motes, connecting them in some undefined way. He put it to the test, edging back a bit, then again, with a shift away from her.

  And there it was. A slight, graceful turn of her shoulder. She rotated toward him, like a cat following warm rays of sun. He would have been smug about it, perhaps, had he not been equally as struck by the auburn streaks lifting from her dark hair to meet the light, or had he not been fighting to ignore the close fit of her spencer as it molded her long arms and generous curves before it nipped in at her waist.

  He told himself that now was not the time to ogle her—or to recall that kiss—or to imagine what might have happened, had that porter not interrupted. He might have kissed her soft lips again and laid her back upon the bunk and—

  “You are free to go now,” the clerk told them, approaching from behind. “Welcome to France.”

  “Our thanks,” Tru gave the man a nod and slipped him a coin. “If you will not mind, I shall leave my wife safely here for a few moments while I find us transportation?”

  The clerk agreed.

  Tru straightened his coat and leaned close to speak in Callie’s ear. “Stay here. You’ll be safe enough. I’ll find us a hack and a cart for our things and return shortly.”

  On impulse he took her hand and pressed it to his lips, thinking it might be a gesture a man would make toward his wife as they set out upon a new path together. But her pulse jumped so rapidly beneath his fingers and such a sweet flush rose up over her cheeks that he decided on he spot that Tousseau Chaput would adopt it as a habit.

  With a nod to the clerk as he departed, Tru stepped into the bustle of the busy wharf. The din assaulted his ears. He passed a group of sailors, set free on leave. They roared with laughter, drunk with rotgut and freedom. Stevedores chanted as they shifted loads, clerks shouted instructions and numbers, and as he moved further in, doxies flirted and called out invitations.

  He ignored it all, asked for directions, and set off, moving steadily and ducking once as a wizened old woman, cleaning fish over a flat board, threw the guts to a hovering flock of screaming gulls. He weaved amongst crates, cases and barrels until he found the lanes that led to the city proper.

  He stifled a curse. He’d been expecting a stack of vehicles for hire, but the space loomed nearly empty instead. At the distant corner he caught sight of the last few of a line of wagons, all laden with distinctively branded casks, pulling away. Only a couple of small gigs were left, the sort that could carry a passenger or two—and one lone wagon, also stacked high with casks, rapidly falling behind.

  Not for lack of trying, it would seem. In fact, the red-faced driver had abandoned his seat. He stood now before the handsome draft horse, pulling hard and trying to coax the animal into action.

  The horse stretched out his head to accommodate him, but refused to pick up his feet.

  The other drivers guffawed. “Going to let that nag best you, Ludo?” one called.

  The florid driver cursed in colorful Breton. Tru heard something that sounded like “stubborn, bone-knackered nag,” before the unfortunate Ludo climbed back up onto the driver’s box and s
lashed the reins viciously. “Move, damn you!”

  No response.

  His color climbing alarmingly higher, the driver stood on the box and faced a large pile of crushed crates across the lane. “Edgar! Get out here now and do something with this bag of bones!”

  Without waiting for a reply, he dropped down onto his seat, reached beneath it and brought out a long-handled whip. He cracked it once, hard and fast across the horse’s back. The animal flinched, but stood its stubborn ground.

  “I. Am. So. Tired. Of. This!” With each syllable, the red-faced, wild-eyed man cracked the horse another blow.

  Tru had had enough. He stepped forward, intent on putting on a stop to it, when a low roaring “No!” echoed from the pile of broken crates.

  He paused, craning his neck to see a figure crawling backwards from the mess, still hunched over close to the ground. “Don’t hit her.” The words rumbled like thunder from a big man who slowly stood up. Over his shoulder he said, “I asked you not to hit her. She’ll move when I ask her. I told you to wait. I’m almost finished.”

  “I don’t want to wait!” Ludo shouted back. “I want to make this delivery, pocket a sou or two and then get back here to make some more!” He punctuated this speech with another blow.

  Tru stepped forward again. “That’s enough of that now!”

  Ludo ignored him.

  The horse shuddered.

  The other drivers laughed once more.

  Tru’s eyes widened as the big man—Edgar, he presumed—rumbled again and turned about. He was massive. Large brown eyes hung beneath a prominent brow and an almost bulging forehead. Straight blonde hair swept off of his face and ended in a blunt fall at his nape. In his hands he cradled a—

  Tru blinked. A cat. He held a young cat in his hands, one leg bandaged with what looked like a kerchief and pieces of broken crate. As Tru watched, the big man maneuvered it carefully into the outer pocket of his long frock coat.