The Songbird's Seduction

by Connie Brockway

  “Good heavens, no! I am sure she has every respect for Lucy’s youth and unmarried state.”

  “I think so, too. But if Lucy were here we would have had to quash that interesting chat.”

  “Just so.”

  “I have news, comrades!”

  At the sound of Mrs. Martin’s voice the sisters sprang apart.

  “I had no sooner reached the lobby when I spotted an emissary from the ferry company speaking to another guest awaiting the boat. First the good news,” Mrs. Martin said. “Dear Lucy is fine. Safe and on dry land.”

  “Oh, good!” the sisters breathed in relief.

  “Unfortunately, that land is not France.” She waved the air impatiently. “What I mean to say is Lucy is on an island. Sark. The seas were so rough that the ferry was forced to seek safe harbor there.”

  “Oh, poor Lucy!”

  “The agent assured me that everyone is fine. Apparently the situation is not without precedence.”

  “So she will arrive in the morning?”

  Mrs. Martin’s lovely face crumpled. “I am afraid not, ducks.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The ferry was damaged on some rocks coming into the island and they need to make repairs before it is once again seaworthy. They’ll be stuck there for another day at the least.”

  “Then we must wait here for her? What am I thinking? Of course, we must.” Though Lavinia tried to sound hearty, Bernice was not fooled. Tension threaded through her voice and pulled at the corners of her eyes. The last time Lavinia had left home had been fifty years ago and look what had happened then. It would be a small wonder if she did not feel some trepidation, for it was one thing to go on an adventure with competent companions, quite another to be marooned in a foreign land without friends or resources. She might not recall how to say “good morning” in French, let alone how to order a meal, though she supposed she could pantomime.

  What interested Bernice was her own lack of trepidation. She had always been the cautious one in their family, the one least likely to take chances, run risks, or do anything interesting for that matter; yet the prospect of being alone in France didn’t overset her at all. Her concern was all for Lavinia.

  Mrs. Martin lifted her hands. “I would stay with you if only I could. But I have prior commitments. I am expected in Châtellerault tomorrow night for a performance. I know this—”

  “Oh, my. Of course. We would not think of imposing on you!” Lavinia exclaimed in an agony of embarrassment, reaching for her water glass and in doing so upsetting her wineglass. She stumbled to her feet as it spilled across the table, drenching the linen cloth. At once, a waiter appeared to mop up the mess, contempt implicit in his silent efficiency. Lavinia’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears.

  Feeling her sister’s mortification keenly but uncertain how to help, Bernice stared at the red wine pooling beneath her dessert dish.

  “Ça ne fait rien!” Mrs. Martin snapped at the waiter, rising majestically from her seat and pulling out a chair while ignoring the surreptitious gazes of the other diners. “Please be seated, Lavinia. We might as well enjoy this fellow’s little one act play. I saw a similar piece in London once. How to Avoid Being Tipped, I believe it was called.”

  At this, the waiter, who hitherto had evinced no knowledge of English, became all gracious consolation, smilingly bidding “les madams” to forgive him for placing the wineglass so unforgivably near the edge of the table.

  Lavinia sank down in the proffered seat, her color high. Bernice made no effort to restrain an unladylike smirk of satisfaction.

  “I didn’t mean to be so clumsy.”

  “You weren’t,” Mrs. Martin said. “Now, where were we? Oh, yes. About my tour. I was about to say that though I understand what I am about to ask is an imposition, but I would count it a great favor if you would consider coming with me rather than staying here and waiting for Lucy. Châtellerault is practically on the way to Saint-Girons.”

  Bernice stared. Whatever Mrs. Martin had been about to say, she would bet the deacon’s life it hadn’t been that. And from the look on Lavinia’s face, she thought as much, too.

  Mrs. Martin, however, continued on in the same slightly apologetic tone. “As silly as it may seem to you ladies, I always perform so much better knowing there are familiar faces waiting to greet me afterwards. I am afraid I cannot ask you to attend my little performance—I am in the envious position of playing to sold-out venues,” here she lowered her eyes modestly, “but I can guarantee you will not be disappointed in the town or the hotel.

  “And we can leave word for Lucy, telling her where we have gone. Or rather where I have absconded with you.” She chuckled lightly, her gaze darting from face to face. “That is if you would be so kind as to let me abscond with you? Just for a day or so?”

  Bernice knew little about people outside her own small sphere. She knew still less about theatre people and other artistes. But she understood innate kindness and recognized generosity of spirit and in Marjorie Martin she saw both.

  “Why, thank you,” she said before Lavinia could demure. “It would be our pleasure.”

  Lucy awoke with a start and bolted upright, dazed and disoriented in the thick darkness. Her narrow bed felt lumpy and unfamiliar. And the smell—dear Lord. Was that her?—was definitely unfamiliar. Where . . . ? How . . . ? Archie.

  “Archie? Archie!”

  A loud bang greeted her frantic call, followed by a muffled curse. Then the door at the foot of the bed swung open and the figure of a tall, strapping man was silhouetted against the doorway. He held one hand to his forehead.

  “What is it?” He sounded terse. “Lucy, are you all right?”

  At the sound of his voice, her tension dissolved. He hadn’t abandoned her. “Yes, Archie. I’m all right.”

  Broad shoulders slumped with relief then tensed again; this time, she suspected, not with anxiety. “Then why did you shout like that? You scared the hell—the daylights out of me. I banged my head jumping up.”

  She didn’t take offense. She liked that he’d leapt to her aid. It made her feel like a damsel in distress. And he played knight-errant so naturally . . . a tad crabbily, true, but naturally nonetheless, as though he’d rescued slews of damsels . . .

  Her smile faded. In point of fact, he would probably come running to any old damsel’s aid. She wasn’t sure whether this was a good thing or a bad one.

  “Well? What happened? Mouse? Bug?” She couldn’t see his expression, backlit as he was, but his tone was long-suffering. Apparently the females he’d known were not keen on wildlife. Weak sisters, the lot of them. “Bat?”

  “As if a cute little bat would rattle me.” She gave a sniff. “I woke up and I didn’t know where I was and the only thing I could remember was you but you weren’t here so I . . . I called for you.”

  It was all coming back to her now. The horrific sea voyage, the nearly-as-horrific cart ride, the frequent stops for her to . . . the frequent stops, and finally, gloriously, Archie lifting her from the cart and carrying her against his warm, solid chest for far too short a distance before laying her down on a lumpy mattress. Then a woman with a nose as thin and hooked as an oyster knife had stripped her clothing from her before giving her face and hands a cursory wiping, and then had come blessed sleep.

  “Oh.” He didn’t sound displeased, just mildly bemused. As if he didn’t really know how to feel about her admission.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  “We’re in the Beaufort house on the island of Sark, about twenty-five miles from the French coast. You’re occupying their recently married daughter’s room.” He turned and started to close the door.

  “Wait!”

  He stopped. “What?”

  “Where are you sleeping?”

  “In the next room.”

  “There’s another bedroom next to this?”

  “No. It’s a sort of parlor. I am making use of what passes for Madame Beaufort’s settee.”


  She was asking questions just to keep him there. He’d already half turned to go, allowing the light from the parlor to wash over his features. The top two buttons of his white shirt had come undone, presumably while he slept, and she could see a dark whorl of hair just below the notch at the base of his neck.

  She’d never seen a grown man without his shirt on, only a couple male cousins in their early adolescence with whom she’d once snuck out to go swimming when she was ten. They’d been as pale and smooth and narrow as worms, only the jut of shoulders hinting that something more prepossessing might await in their future.

  She wondered just how hairy Archie’s chest was under his shirt. The thought made her hug her knees tight to her chest. “Why not a bed?”

  “Because there is no other bed.” His tone implied she ought to have realized this without being told.

  “But I distinctly recall the woman offering bed and board for the both of us.”

  Even in the dim light, she could detect color rising in his face. “That is because she thought we were married.”

  “Oh.”

  Once more he started to pull the door shut and once more she stopped him. “Is it hideously uncomfortable?”

  “I’ve slept in worse.”

  Now, that was intriguing.

  “Why didn’t you go find a real bed in another house?”

  “Because I didn’t want you to wake up and think I’d left you.”

  This time, he did close the door.

  Lucy flopped on her back in the bed, listening to the sound of the surf pounding against the rocky shoreline. She strained her ears to hear if she could detect Archie moving about, but other than a single scrape of chair legs against bare floorboards it was silent.

  First he had come after her—well, he had actually come after her great-aunts, but she wasn’t going to quibble over trivialities—and then he’d stayed with her when he might have left to find a warm bed of his own in some other house. Why?

  In Lucy’s short life all the people who had ever concerned themselves with her well-being had done so out of a sense of duty. Even the great-aunts, whose love she did not doubt, had originally accepted her into their home because they had felt obliged to do so. It was probably true of Archie as well. He was just that sort of an inherently decent type. A gentleman born and bred. But deep within, she found herself hoping something more than simple decency accounted for his concern.

  She snuggled down beneath the blankets, thinking about how it had felt to be in his arms—at least when she hadn’t been worried she was going to get sick all over his shirt—how strong and capable and warm he’d been. She thought about the spark of amusement he tried to douse whenever it ignited in his coal-black pirate’s eyes, and the utterly endearing perplexity he evinced when he looked at her.

  Something about her upset and confounded and attracted him. Poor darling. He really did need someone to teach him how to enjoy life.

  And she was just the person to do it.

  Tap! Tap! Tap!

  Once more, Lucy came awake with a start. Something, or someone, was rapping somewhere. Loudly. She pulled the blanket up and struggled to a sitting position. Pale, early morning light drifted in from the bedchamber’s single window.

  Tap! Tap!

  Where . . . ? She frowned and peered out of the clouded glass. Over a hundred years of the house settling had raised the landscape to the point where the ground outside was just under the window sill. Consequently all she saw was a pair of trouser-clad legs above feet encased in serviceable-looking rubber Wellies and a tanned, strong hand curved over the top of a stout-looking stick. The stick rose to rap on her window again.

  “Miss Eastlake? Are you awake?” asked a voice muffled by the thickness of the cottage walls. The man bent at the waist and squinted, trying to look inside.

  Archie! She scooted out of bed, flinging the blanket over her shoulders and pushing back the latch on the cottage window, throwing it wide open and in doing so nearly hitting him in the shins.

  He jumped back, startled.

  She peered up, giving him a saucy grin. “Just what are you doing peeping into a lady’s bedchamber, Professor Grant?”

  Bright red color flashed up his neck and filled his face, and Lucy decided right there and then that nothing could be more appealing than a blushing pirate. And he did look piratical this morning. Deliciously so. The wind had invested a bronzy hue to his face and tousled the loose black curls back from his forehead. He hadn’t shaved and his hard angled jaw looked blue-black with a nascent beard, making the cleft in his chin even more apparent.

  “I didn’t mean to . . . that is, I . . .”

  She waited patiently, charmed, wrapping the blanket closer as she sat down on the open sill. She wondered how long it would be before he was accustomed enough to her teasing that he could complete a full sentence in response.

  His mouth flattened, but more from exasperation with himself than her, she’d wager. “A messenger brought news of the ferry a short while ago. I wasn’t going to wake you but then, when I started out on a walk, I realized you might want to know.”

  “Know what?” The wind whipped a strand of her hair across her face.

  “The ferry was damaged on some rocks coming in last night. They’re working on repairs now but it will take at least a day before they anticipate we can leave here.”

  She stared at him, torn between offering a prayer of thanks for this small delay and ingratitude that it was only a day. But then, he had said “at least a day.” The important thing was to take every advantage of whatever Providence offered and in this Lucy knew herself to be expert.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Eastlake.”

  Apparently, he’d mistaken her silence for dismay. “That’s all right.” She released a small, brave sigh. “We’ll muddle through.”

  “That’s the spirit.” His tone suggested he thought she was being uncommonly gracious by not putting up a fuss.

  “Thanks. And please, call me Lucy. After yesterday, I am sure we know each other well enough for you to use my Christian name.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Without seeming to think about it, he reached down and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Well then, Lucy, there you have it. We won’t be leaving any time soon.”

  He smiled brightly. Indeed, he looked quite pleased.

  “Mrs. Beaufort will make you something to eat when you’re ready. And don’t let her convince you that you’ll need to pay extra; she specifically said room and board.”

  “Won’t you be joining me?’

  “No. I’ve already eaten. I’m going to take a walk along the cliffs and stop at any crofts I find. Mrs. Beaufort tells me there are at least a dozen on this side of the island alone.”

  The prospect seemed to make him positively giddy. He beamed with enthusiasm. Hmm. Perhaps he had some sort of mania for crofts? Not that it mattered—she knew scads of odd people. Some might even point at her family for examples.

  “How delightful. I love a good croft. So crofty. I should think there are some wonderful examples throughout the island.”

  “Really? I’ve never noticed that one croft was substantially different from the next.”

  No mania for crofts, then. Maybe cliffs? “They probably aren’t, I just like them. But not as much as I like a good bracing walk along a cliff. One never feels so alive as when one is staring down a two-hundred-foot precipice.”

  “Oh?” He was regarding her with some concern. “You don’t feel compelled to do anything other than stare down them do you?”

  “Heavens no. Why would I?”

  “I don’t know. You seem peculiarly ardent.”

  “I seem peculiarly ardent? What about you? You were practically giggling as your recited your plan to go lurking about the cliffs and sneaking up on a dozen unsuspecting crofts.”

  At this he actually laughed, a deep-throat rumble of mirth that seemed to surprise him. “It’s not the crofts I’m interested in, it’s the
ir tenants.”

  “Their tenants?” she repeated blankly.

  “Yes. Do you realize this island has been inhabited for over a thousand years?”

  She shook her head.

  “It has. The inhabitants here are the only known people to speak an ancient Norman dialect called Sercquiais. Mrs. Beaufort claims her family has been on this island since the fourteenth century. The fourteenth. She told me that the oatcakes she served me this morning came from a recipe handed down since that time.”

  Lucy, whose vague recollection of Mrs. Beaufort’s biscuits last night could in no way account for Archie’s enthusiasm, continued to regard him blankly.

  “This is a microcosm, Lucy. I could travel to islands in the middle of the Pacific Ocean or to the Arctic sea and not find a genetic pool as concentrated as this one. It’s magnificent!

  “The oral traditions and customs that have been kept alive here may well predate the Roman occupation. I would not be surprised to find reference to Taranis in some form or other.”

  She had no idea who Taranis was but contrived to look astonished.

  “You haven’t a clue who Taranis is, do you?”

  She frowned. Had she lost her acting skills along with her dinner last night? Somehow he’d known she was pretending to be impressed, just like she suspected he’d known she was lying about knowing French. It was an ability she found both off-putting and mysterious.

  “I realize it might not sound impressive to a layman but to someone in my field the chance of adding to the canon on British Iron Age culture is too good to pass up.”

  “Your field?”

  “Yes. Cultural anthropology.”

  “Golden Bough sorts of things?” she asked, naming the recently published book on comparative religions that had London society in an uproar.

  If he was surprised she knew about The Golden Bough, he didn’t show it. That pleased her. “Some. Basically it’s studying the relative development of people. I’m sure you’d find it dull. Most folks do.”

  “I think I’d find it plenty interesting. You’re trying to figure out how people got the way they are, right?”