by Jane Ashford
Flora stopped moving. It did no good to be exasperated, much less afraid. If she was very careful, she’d soon be free.
But no matter how meticulously she worked, for each thorn she managed to pry loose, another dug in. She could get out, of course, if she was willing to ruin her clothes and slash her skin. She could feel blood trickling down her neck. She imagined returning to the house looking as if she’d been savaged by a pack of mad cats. Doubtless she would encounter an immaculate Lady Victoria on the doorstep, all too ready to sneer.
She became aware of a rustling in the leaves near her feet. What next? The badgers? Snakes? No, of course not snakes. It was far too cold.
A small black-furred head poked through an opening at the base of the briars. Evading the thorns with no visible effort, Plato emerged and stared up at her. “Oh, you’re back, are you?” said Flora. He sat down at her feet. “Come to gloat? Point out that if I’d followed you, I wouldn’t be in this predicament?”
Plato looked at her. Not judgmentally, because that was impossible.
“Go fetch help,” commanded Flora.
The dog didn’t move.
“Some clever gardeners. A footman from the house. Anyone. Go!”
“Plato? Where are you, you dratted animal?” called a voice nearby. “There are badgers in here. Salbridge told me. A half-grown badger could tear you limb from limb without breaking a sweat.”
Great minds move in similar directions, thought Flora. “Lord Robert?” she called.
There was a short silence. “Flora?”
“Yes. I’ve, ah, become entangled in some brambles.”
“Keep talking so I can find you,” he answered.
“I’m quite stuck,” said Flora. “In these thorn bushes. Plato doesn’t appear to care in the least. Or, actually, he’s staring at me as if it was all my fault.” She frowned down at the dog. “Does he ever blink? He’s really a bit uncanny, don’t you—”
Robert appeared on the path. “Good God!” He started forward.
“Be careful! It’s very easy to get caught. If you touch one branch, the whole mass moves.”
“I see.” He examined the arching stems. “You really are caught, aren’t you?” His lips twitched.
“If you laugh, I’ll…make you sorry,” Flora promised. Plato made one of his odd grumpy gargling sounds. “And you! I’ll find a badger and hand you over to him.”
Robert choked. “So, would you say you’re in need of rescue?”
“Just get me out!”
Robert moved a few steps closer. He could see that the thorns had barbs like fishhooks, ready to rip and tear if not removed very carefully. There was a trickle of blood on Flora’s neck. After a moment of calculation, he eeled between two branches. He had to stop once and detach thorns from his sleeve before he reached her side.
“These things are diabolical,” she said. “When I turned to pull loose, they seemed to…sort of lunge at me.”
Robert nodded as he evaluated her plight. She was likely to become even more entangled if he attempted to work the thorns out here. He’d probably suffer the same fate. Reaching carefully inside his coat, he slipped his penknife from the pocket of his waistcoat and opened it. “I’m going to cut the branches that are stuck to you,” he said.
“Then I can move to a clear spot to remove the thorns. Good idea.” When Flora nodded, she pulled at the briars on her bonnet. Another sprig latched onto the brim.
“Stay very still.”
“I know!” She let out a huff of breath. “I beg your pardon. This is…rather irritating.” She smiled an apology.
Robert felt a catch in his chest, as if his heart had stumbled briefly. “Right then. Move back, Plato,” he said. For once, the little dog obeyed him, slipping easily out to a more open spot.
He began on the closest branch, embedded in the skirts of Flora’s pelisse. He had to kneel to reach it properly. His knife was small for the tough fibers. The bush swayed as he sawed at the branch. A spray of thorns rasped across his hair, but didn’t catch hold.
Robert soon pricked his skin. There was no way to hold the branch still without being stuck, and he’d left his gloves indoors when he’d seen Plato shoot wildly out of the bushes and then go haring off again.
Blood made the blasted thing slippery. Robert got out his handkerchief, used it to wrap the branch, and went back to work. At last, he was through. The severed stem sprang back a little, he was glad to see, giving him a few inches of working room. He looked up. “One down,” he said with a smile.
The heated gaze he encountered went through him like a thunderbolt. He was suddenly acutely aware of his position, right in among her skirts. His shoulder rested against her thigh. The scent of her—flowery perfume and sheer female—enveloped him.
“You’ve hurt yourself,” she said.
“It’s nothing.” Intensely aroused, Robert eased to his feet. Flora smiled at him again. Her fierce blue eyes raked him. He knew, absolutely, that she was remembering their kisses.
Robert turned to the stem that lay across her neck—the worst of them, because the thorns had broken her skin. He had to move very carefully, or they’d both be shredded. His hand couldn’t tremble.
The sawing of the knife inevitably moved the thorns. For all his care, they dug in a little as he worked. Robert gritted his teeth when a droplet of blood ran down to the collar of her pelisse. Then the briar was severed, no longer pulling at her.
The next branch was wrapped around her far sleeve. He had to press close to her to avoid the briars at his back as he reached for it. And stay there while he cut through the stringy fiber of the bramble. The feel of her—curve of breast and hip, her cheek resting on his chest—made him clumsier. At one point a thorn drove deep into the pad of his index finger, and he stifled an oath.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, her voice a vibration in his body as well as a musical sound.
“Don’t be silly.” The words came out rough with yearning. He heard it, and he was sure she did, too. Without moving from his intoxicating position, Robert lifted his hands to the briars twisted in her bonnet.
Flora was having trouble breathing. She could feel his heartbeat, so near her ear, accelerating in tandem with her own. She could feel his muscles shift against her as he cut at the brambles. If she looked up, carefully, she could see his face—handsome, intent. The lips that had thrilled her were only inches away. But she couldn’t move enough to offer her own again. She had to remain very still, plastered against him.
She felt her bonnet come free from the thorns. Then his hands were on her shoulders, turning her slightly, and her side was pressed against him as he dealt with the branch snaked along her back. She was in his arms. It felt very good.
Robert sawed at the final stem, wondering if the pressure of her hip on his groin would drive him mad. All the fingertips on his left hand were bloody now, but he didn’t feel it.
The last fibers parted. The branch sprang back. Leaving one arm around Flora, Robert carefully guided her out of the brambles. Plato still sat there, watching them like a builder supervising a tricky construction job.
Robert wiped the blood from his fingers. The pulse of desire was so strong that they trembled a little. “I should remove the thorns at your neck,” he said.
Flora nodded, her eyes fixed on him in a way that further enflamed him.
She stood still as he detached the barbs as gently as possible, one by one, his fingers repeatedly brushing the silken skin of her neck. At one point, her breath caught. “Did I hurt you? I’m sorry.”
“No. You didn’t hurt me.” She raised a hand and touched his cheek.
Finally, the last thorn came away from her neck. Robert refolded his handkerchief to the cleanest part and pressed it to the line of tiny wounds. “Hold this for a bit.” Their hands touched as Flora complied.
And the
n he kissed her. He didn’t pull her close. He simply lowered his head and took her lips for his own. Her mouth was warm and pliable under his, eager and encouraging. She leaned into the kiss with equal fervor.
Robert felt as if he might go up in flames. Irresistibly, his hands started to rove, and caught on a line of thorns along her back. With an impatient exclamation, he drew back.
Flora supposed she could have removed the rest of the barbs herself. Most of them. But she didn’t want to move away from him. Indeed, she leaned closer, dizzy with his kiss and the clean masculine scent of him. His hands were gentle and authoritative as he detached the thorns one by one—from her shoulder, her arm, her back. He knelt again to deal with the branch twined in her skirts. Her throat tightened as she looked down on his bent head. She wanted to twine her fingers in his auburn hair. When he finished and stood, she felt oddly bereft.
“Best take off your bonnet, I think,” he said.
She untied the ribbons and pulled it free. Strands of her hair came loose and blew out on the breeze, black streamers. Despite the brisk autumn weather, she felt hot.
Robert took the hat. “This may spoil the trimming,” he said, starting to detach a thorn.
“I can do that later,” she said, taking it back. She dropped the bonnet on the ground and laced her arms around his neck.
She wanted a kiss that went on and on. She wanted more than kisses. She wanted everything. Months of denied desire flooded through her.
Robert responded ardently, gently, fiercely. As Flora melted against him, her defenses crumbled and fell. All the yearning she’d locked away rushed out. She pulled him closer.
And without warning, a tide of very different emotion roiled and twisted and shook Flora as a terrier does a rat.
It wasn’t the first time he’d freed her. Last spring, he’d found her imprisoned in darkness, left there by the youngster set on killing Royalton. He’d dashed in, bringing light and exclamations, and untied the ropes knotted around her. The rescue had been an immense relief, and a humiliation—to have made a stupid mistake, to have been caught, to be helpless. She hated the idea of the damsel in distress. And the complacent fellow who plucks the poor creature from her folly. She was not that witless girl; she was intelligent, self-sufficient, strong.
Flora looked up into Robert’s handsome face. She’d been pushing him away partly because of that past history, she realized. It wasn’t only wariness about the difference in their stations in life. She didn’t wish to feel less, to owe a humble gratitude.
Concern showed in his expression, warring with the heat in his blue eyes. “Are you all right?” he said. His embrace had slackened. “What is it?”
How could understanding one’s behavior be more unsettling than ignorance? Flora wondered. Her father had taught her that it was always better to know. But she was profoundly shaken. She had to step back.
Her expression had gone tragic, and he had no idea why. Robert resisted his impulse to enfold her in his arms again. She took another step back. “I should go back to the house,” she murmured.
“I’m very sorry if I’ve offended you,” Robert couldn’t help saying.
“You have not offended me!” she cried, as if the complete opposite was true.
It wouldn’t do to press her now, Robert thought. And whatever had gone wrong, a wilderness of thorns was not the place to mend it. He would get to the bottom of this later. He bent and picked up the discarded bonnet and his handkerchief, which she’d dropped.
She took the bonnet from him. Ignoring the spray of bramble that still swayed on its brim, she jammed it on her head, pushing loose strands of black hair under the edges. Her hands were shaking as she tied the ribbons.
He knew she’d enjoyed kissing him. There could be no doubt about that.
At their feet, Plato offered one of his curmudgeonly grumbles.
Robert grasped the opportunity. “We’ll hear nothing from you,” he said to the dog. “You have a ruined bonnet and a stained handkerchief chalked up to your account, sir.”
Flora choked out a laugh.
“And we both know what Bailey will say about these.” Robert bent to show his dog five bloody fingertips. “Bailey is my valet,” he told Flora as he straightened. “He and Plato are not friends. Not even remotely.”
“I-I begin to think you’re right about Plato being reincarnated,” said Flora, picking up his cue.
“The return of Oliver Cromwell, perhaps?” suggested Robert. “Or Louis the Fourteenth? Caligula?”
She laughed wholeheartedly this time, which had been his goal. He offered his arm. She took it. They walked back along the path. Plato paced them.
“It’s…it’s odd, the way he moves and stares at the same time,” said Flora.
“It’s more than odd. It’s bizarre. And I’ve never seen him stumble.”
“He has the strangest expression. As if he would solve all one’s problems if he could only speak.”
Plato trotted along, eyes on them.
“An idiotic idea,” Flora added.
“Oh no, I’ve often thought the same.” Robert looked at his dog. It occurred to him that Plato didn’t stray. Every time he’d run off, he’d taken Robert to some quite particular location. Perhaps he was, rather, Machiavelli reborn.
At the edge of the thicket, Flora paused. “What if someone—Lady Victoria—sees us coming out of the shrubbery together? Disheveled.” She put a hand to her ravaged bonnet.
Robert didn’t want to let her go. He’d had some idea of slipping into the library, he realized, and having a quiet talk. But she was right. Reluctantly, he stepped back. Flora walked quickly, back straight, clearly hoping she could reach her room without encountering any of the other guests.
He watched her hurry into the house. “Nothing goes easily with her, Plato.”
The door closed. She was gone.
“And yet, would I want it to?” Robert mused. “Her complexity is surely part of the…fascination.”
He turned back. “We will loop around and come out elsewhere.”
When Robert finally emerged from the trees, two strolling couples on the other side of the lawn waved to him. He acknowledged the greetings cordially.
Ten
As soon as Robert entered the drawing room after dinner that evening, Victoria pounced. She’d clearly been lying in wait, a lurker in pink satin. She grasped his arm with both hands and tugged, obviously intending to drag him to her lair—a sofa in the corner—and monopolize his attention.
It wouldn’t do. Her behavior was starting to be marked; much more of this, and people would whisper. He didn’t want that for his friend’s little sister. He was also rather weary of Victoria’s conversation. She was very young and not well informed. So rather than allow himself to be maneuvered, Robert deployed his reinforcements. “I hope you are going to play for us,” he said to the girl. A gesture brought Randolph to his side. “I know my brother would welcome the chance to join in. His singing voice is much admired, and I’ve told him of your talents.”
Victoria preened a little as Randolph bowed. “I’d be delighted to try a duet,” he said.
She nodded. But Robert was not to be allowed to escape so easily. “Come and help choose a song,” Victoria said to him.
She was going to have to learn, soon, that not everyone could be commanded, he thought. But he went along for now. He had no intention of approaching Flora in this setting.
They walked over to the pianoforte. Randolph and Victoria rifled through the sheet music kept nearby. Their tastes did not match.
Robert turned from the escalating dispute to watch Flora brood. He had no doubt that she was. He knew her face in many moods. He’d traced them over weeks in Russell Square as they worked together. He missed that time far more than he’d ever thought he would. How surprising to learn something new about himself at his age! That
was the point, he thought. The person who showed you new parts of yourself was the one you—
“Oh no,” said Randolph forcefully.
“Lord Robert likes this one,” Victoria declared.
They turned in tandem to face him.
“You said it was a pretty melody,” Victoria added, exhibiting the music for a tune called “Evermore.”
Like anyone else, he sometimes spoke absentmindedly, Robert thought. But he was certain he hadn’t said this.
“Sentimental tosh,” Randolph objected.
“How can you say that?” exclaimed Victoria.
“Because it is the truth. The phrasing is trite. The—”
“Lord Robert is choosing!”
They crowded closer. Robert faced his dilemma. Lose a bit of his brother’s aesthetic respect, or prolong this tedious argument. “Yes, sing that one,” he said. He could mend matters with Randolph later.
With a triumphant glance, Victoria sat down at the instrument. Randolph stood beside her. To one who knew him well—a brother, for example—it was clear that he was irritated. He’d best woo a lady who shared his musical sensibilities, Robert concluded.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Robert. “A duet.”
People turned to the pianoforte. Robert stepped back, then faded further into the mass of guests. Victoria played some introductory notes, and then they began to sing.
They sounded quite good together, Robert thought, watching Flora drift toward the door. Lingering conversations were dying down. Some were moving closer to the singers. It was easy, in the general shift, to move unnoticed to the entry.
There was a sudden discordance. The music stopped. “You can’t change the key in the middle of a song,” Randolph said loudly.
“I did no such thing!” cried Victoria. “You were flat.”
“Flat!”
Carrick rushed over to offer his opinion. Trevellyn waded in to say that he was sure Lady Victoria was right. The crowd focused on this new form of entertainment.
Aware that Randolph could hold his own, and more, in any musical discussion, Robert slipped out of the room on Flora’s heels.