by Jo Beverley
“I don’t see why not.” He picked up his neglected glass and drank. “I am resolved to be nakedly honest. I’m uncertain what love is, Laura. I want you. Blunt, but there it is.”
Blunt enough to hurt. “You want to possess Labellelle?”
He considered it. “Only insofar as she is the external of you.”
That was better. “I’m not at all serious,” she warned.
“I think you can be very serious. If not, I’m sure I can be serious enough for two.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think you’re serious. I mean, you are, but not too serious.” She rose from the table and walked away. “I can’t seem to find the right words.”
“A sensation I’m familiar with.”
She knew he was still in his chair, which was impolite, but the right thing to do.
“You could tell me how you feel about me,” he said. “I think we are friends. I think we trust each other, enjoy each other’s company. But we need more than that.”
Nakedly honest. She could agree that they were only friends. She could tell him that she wanted him as much as he wanted her, simply physically, his body joined to hers. She could tell him that she wanted him as husband so he would protect her son.
But she sensed that none of these things were needed here. Thank God that there was hope that HG was Henry Gardeyne, and she didn’t need to betray his trust. As it was, she was too fraught at the moment to sort out her own mixture of need, desire, and fear. She’d experienced an impulsive, inadequate marriage and wanted more—especially for Stephen.
She turned and faced him. “I don’t know. It’s more than friendship, believe me. I don’t see you as a brother. But . . .” She opened her hands helplessly. “There’s no hurry, is there? I’ll be at Merrymead. We can . . .”
She couldn’t find the right word. Court did not seem to fit.
“Continue to relearn each other,” he said. “No, to learn the people we are now.” He rose and came to her, took the hands she still held out. “You don’t mind that I went to Caldfort with intent?”
“No, of course not. Why, though? We’d spoken so rarely over six years. Why did you think you wanted to marry me?”
Slowly, he brought both her hands to his lips and kissed each one. “Because I wanted to marry you six years ago.”
“When you proposed? But I thought . . .”
He smiled. “What?”
She had to give him truth. “That it was gallantry. Logic, even. You thought I was making a mistake and offered to rescue me.”
His smile deepened. “Not so far off. I didn’t realize myself how much I really cared. Perhaps if I had, I would have been able to persuade you.”
“I doubt it,” she said honestly. “Hal dazzled me, and anyway, I would have balked at the scandal of jilting him.”
“Even if you’d loved me?”
She pulled free of his hands. “I’m not sure I could have recognized another love then, but the scandal would have terrified me. I was only eighteen. And,” she added deliberately, “I wanted Hal.”
“I know. And once you had him, you were happy. I accepted fate. I wasn’t really angry at you, no. My needs were my concern, not yours.”
“But that’s the problem. I wasn’t aware of you that way!”
“I know, but does that mean you never can be? We could test the hypothesis. . . .”
He drew her into his arms. She raised a hand between them. “Stephen, I’m not sure this is wise.”
“Trust me.”
She let him draw her close because she wanted this so much. Willingly, she molded to his body for their first real kiss, sliding her hand up and into his silky hair, opening her mouth to taste him, sighing with deep, revealing satisfaction.
Different, so different to Hal in every way, but right. This part, at least, was right.
And thus it was dangerous. She felt his arms tighten, his mouth demand, and clutched back at him as hunger burst into flame. She dragged free, tore away, faced him at bay.
Saw his devastation.
“No!” she cried.
Swiftly, he put his fingers to her lips, but in his eyes she saw pure pain. She clutched his hand to her lips and kissed it. “No, I’m not offended,” she murmured against his skin. “No, I didn’t dislike it. I liked it too much. As did you.”
“God, yes. Come to my bed, Laura. I’d like it even more.”
She laughed against his hand, pressing it to her cheek. “We mustn’t.”
“You know I want to marry you.”
“That’s why. If we make love, we’re committed.” Before he could make the obvious comment, she said, “I can’t believe I’m the one preaching restraint, but I am. Desire is not enough, Stephen, even desire as powerful as this. I may not be the wife you need.”
“Do I have no say in that?”
“Only half. Do you really know me?”
“I think I do.”
“I’m still Lady Skylark.”
“Are you?”
Strange that sadness could make her smile, but it did. She kissed his hand again and let it go. “We need time. We have time. We can bill and coo in the usual way and be sure before we make commitments.”
Silence settled, marked only by the steadily ticking clock and never-ending rumble of the sea.
“You’re right,” he said at last. “I can’t believe that you’re the one preaching restraint. It probably means that you’re right in other ways. That your feelings are not as deeply engaged as mine.”
She could protest—it felt as if her heart was breaking—but she knew where that would lead. There was only one way to end this.
“Good night,” she said and retreated to her room.
Once there, she sat in thought, but thought did no good. Goodness knows who Stephen had wanted when he’d gone to Caldfort, but now he wanted the woman who could debate philosophy and discuss laws.
He thought Lady Skylark was a person of the past.
Laura wasn’t sure that was true, or that she wanted it to be, so she had to continue to be strong.
Stephen looked at the remains of the meal with disgust. Scraps, smears, and congealing fat. A good representation of his hopes. For one moment as they’d kissed, he’d thought he held heaven in his arms, but then he’d been hurtled back to earth.
She could sweeten it as she wished, but the kiss hadn’t held her, her desire hadn’t compelled her, and she’d retained full control of her reason.
He allowed himself a glimmer of hope. Perhaps it was this situation and all the stresses of it. He would court her in proper fashion from her parents’ house, and perhaps it would all work out in the end.
He picked up his abandoned glass and drained it.
He didn’t believe it.
Not for one bloody moment.
Chapter 35
Sunshine woke Laura to her last day at the Compass. No matter what happened today, she must leave early the next. Jack might turn up, but even if he didn’t, she must return home.
She didn’t want to. Oh, she wanted to be back with her family and she ached for Harry, but she didn’t want this special time with Stephen to end. It must, however, or they would plunge into disaster. In the middle of the night she’d had to fight the temptation to go to him, to taste him, feel him, burn with him.
And bind him.
She prepared for the day, trying to armor herself against folly, longing and fearing their next encounter, but when she went into the parlor, he wasn’t there. The remains of his breakfast replaced the remains of their dinner last night, and a note lay by her place.
Out for a walk. Back soon. S
She picked it up, realizing that it was the first letter she’d ever received from him. It seemed absurd, but he’d never written to her from school or university. Why would he? He’d spilled all the news during holidays. Any messages from Ancross had come from Charlotte. After her marriage, there had certainly been none.
She handled the sheet of paper as if it were precio
us, tempted to tuck it away and treasure it. Instead she rolled it into a ball between her hands and lobbed it at the fire. It raised her spirits to see it land accurately in the flames. With a wry smile at herself, she rang for fresh coffee and settled to eat.
When she’d finished, she went to listen at the wall. Solving the anagram had given reason to believe that Dyer was Henry Gardeyne, but she wanted certainty. Proof. Did he need rescuing from Farouk or not? In fact, she’d be delighted to hear anything that clarified the situation and guided her about what to do next.
She immediately knew that being in this room was dangerous. The smell of Stephen’s soap and of him was just as powerful, if not more so. The mere sight of his brush and comb stirred her longings, and she touched his book simply because he’d probably held it last night. When she looked at the title, however, she found it was the bound report of a committee investigating the country’s prisons. She must not hide from what he was.
The chair was still by the wall, so she sat and listened. They were talking. She sat straighter, annoyed not to have brought paper and pencil, but then she realized it was one voice—HG’s—and he was reciting.
“. . . But still from room to room his way he broke,
They search—they find—they save: with lusty arms
Each bears a prize of unregarded charms;”
Laura recognized The Corsair. No doubt the copy Stephen had discovered that Farouk had bought.
She listened, enjoying the desperate battle back to the boats. There was nothing else to do, and HG read surprisingly well.
“. . . The Pasha wooed as if he deemed the slave
Must seem delighted with the heart he gave;
The Corsair vowed protection, soothed afright,
As if his homage were a woman’s right . . .”
Those words startled her and she moved away from the wall. The first described Hal perfectly. He’d assumed he was doing her a great honor, and she’d thought the same.
It was true. He could have married higher.
Was Stephen the Corsair, wanting to protect and soothe?
She heard a noise and Stephen came into his bedchamber, halting briefly when he saw her, then continuing, stripping off his gloves.
“You look amused,” he said easily, as if nothing awkward lay between them. “Are they telling jokes?”
“HG’s reading The Corsair. Do you think a man’s homage is a woman’s right?”
“Hardly. Why would a woman—or man—wish to be worshipped?”
She recognized that he’d put his finger on the problem she’d sensed. “Why, indeed?”
But perhaps, she thought, she’d been as bad as Hal. She’d been gratified by his proposal, but hadn’t she thought it her due? She, the beauty of her area, desired by all?
He was looking at her. “There are few things more worrying than a thoughtful woman. Are you concerned about last night? Don’t be.”
His calm, direct reference exasperated her, but she was also touched by his honesty. She would match it as far as she could.
“I’m concerned about many things, Stephen, but I’m not distressed. Were you out doing something useful, or simply walking?”
“Walking.” He leant against a bedpost facing her. “Do you want to return to Redoaks now? It might be best.”
Indeed it might, but she said, “No. I’ll give it one more day. But if we have no clarity by this evening, I’d like to arrange an invasion then. Settle it once and for all.”
He nodded. “I’ll send a message to Kerslake. No, I should ride over. It’s not far, and it’s no matter to put bluntly in a letter.”
Another way of avoiding her?
“No clever codes?” she teased.
“I have some and so, I’m sure, does he. Unfortunately, we neglected to coordinate.”
He continually surprised her.
“Can it wait until after lunch?” she asked. “The sun’s shining and I’m cooped up in here without an escort. We could have a walk, and then you might as well eat.”
“By all means. We can take the telescope, in case our elusive quarry is sunning himself in the window.”
The sun was pleasant, the breeze light, and the air as crisp as ever. Laura had come to love it and was hard-pressed to play her sickly part. They plied the spyglass, and she enjoyed watching a ship with full, rounded sails speeding east along the Channel.
“Coming home, probably,” she said. “Soon making land at Portsmouth, or going around to London. Being on a ship like that must be almost like flying.”
“One of the fishermen here could take us out.” But then he added, “Sometime.”
They returned to the inn, encountering people they knew. As they eluded Captain Sillitoe, Laura said, “It’s definitely time for me to leave. Soon some of these people will be familiar enough with my face to perhaps remember it undisguised.”
“True.”
They ate a light lunch, and Laura wondered if Stephen, like she, was thinking about when next they would do the same.
Then he rose. “It’s only three miles, so it shouldn’t take long. I worry about leaving you here.”
“I have my pistol, remember?”
“And know how to use it, yes. But don’t do anything rash.” He raised a hand. “I understand. But I’d prefer not to return to your corpse, you know.”
“And I’d prefer not to have your corpse brought back to me, so ride carefully. I assume the route goes along the cliffs.”
His lips twitched, then relaxed into a smile. “Very well, but I will not be in the company of villains.”
“I doubt I will be, either, but if I see a chance to glimpse HG, I’ll take it. But carefully. Very carefully.”
He sighed. “As you will.” He pulled her to him for a quick kiss. “Be safe.”
Then he left through his bedroom, and shortly afterward she watched him ride away on a horse he must have hired from Topham. It wasn’t as good as the one he’d ridden on the journey from Caldfort, but she still enjoyed watching him.
When he turned out of sight, she went into her room and took out her pistol. Her simple round gown had pockets beneath the skirts and she put the pistol in one, but it was heavy there. Instead she put it in her reticule and carried that with her.
She checked at the wall but it was quiet there now. She was walking away when a loud bang! made her jump. She looked back at the wall. A shot?
She’d only ever fired a pistol outdoors, so she’d no idea what a pistol shot in the next room would sound like, but it didn’t seem likely. More like a mallet banged on a table. A chopper on a chopping block?
She couldn’t ignore this. She opened the door to the corridor to peer out—and looked straight into the dark eyes of Azir Al Farouk. A quick glance showed no bloodstains.
She knew she’d started at the sight of him, so she built on that. “Oh, Mr. Farouk!” she exclaimed, hand on bosom. “I thought I heard a shot. Is everyone all right?”
“A shot, madam? I heard no shot.”
“A bang, then? Most alarming! It sounded as if it came from Captain Dyer’s rooms!”
“Ah. I killed a cockroach with one of my master’s boots.”
A likely tale.
“Oh, I see. You must excuse me.”
“No, madam, you must excuse me for disturbing you.” Austerely polite, he bowed and went on his way.
Laura watched him go. His accent had definitely been stronger than when she’d heard him through the wall. Now, why would he play such games? To allay suspicion? English people were inclined to think foreigners less clever than themselves. It made her all the more determined to learn the truth.
She walked along the squeaky corridor and knocked at the first door. Not the faintest sound. Was it possible that Farouk had received his payment and that bang had been the execution?
She began to tap continuously, remembering to behave like Mrs. Penfold. “Hello? Captain Dyer? Are you all right? Hello? Oh, dear, oh, dear, what to do, what to do . . .”
And then she heard something. A scrape. A . . . shuffle? Was the wounded man crawling toward help?
Suddenly the lock clicked and the door opened a crack.
“What do you want?” a pale-faced man whispered.
Chapter 36
Laura’s first, crushing thought was that this was not, could never be, Henry Gardeyne.
Her next was that he was wounded and he’d staggered to find help.
Her third was that no, there was no blood, but the young man was truly an invalid and he’d exhausted his strength in reaching the door. He was clutching at it desperately.
She quickly put an arm around him, grateful that he was shorter than she. “My dear sir, I’m so sorry! Please, let me assist you back to your chair.”
It was at the table, where cards were laid out in a game of patience.
“I apologize for causing you to rise, sir,” Laura said sincerely as they reached the table and he could clutch it. “I was merely concerned because earlier, I heard such a loud noise.”
The young man sank back into his chair with a wince of pain.
The too-young man. HG couldn’t be the thirty of Henry Gardeyne. If that weren’t enough, he was completely the wrong type. Henry Gardeyne at twenty had possessed some fine-boned features, but not as delicate as these. Both men had brown hair, but HG’s was lighter, a dark honey, and frothed in irrepressible curls.
Most impossibly of all, this man’s eyes were as clear a blue as a summer sky. Gardeyne eyes were usually brown, and that portrait had shown dark eyes. An artist might take liberties, but not to this extent.
He readjusted his position in his chair with another wince. “I’m sorry if the noise disturbed you, madam. It was only F . . . Farouk killing a cockroach. He hates such things.”
He sounded anxious and nervous and Laura wondered why, when he was clearly part of this plot. After all, he’d been able to unlock the door, so he hadn’t been locked in. Was he afraid of punishment? Something about him summoned her protective instincts.
She made some more quick analyses.