by Julia Ross
“Neither can I. He also ransacked your rooms in Blackdown Square.”
She stared up at him, stunned. “He searched my rooms? When?”
He gazed down at her beneath contracted brows, an angry tilt to his mouth. “After you left him in Dorset. What the devil was he looking for, Miracle?”
“I’ve no idea! Are you sure?”
“Hanley cut open your mattress, ripped into your dresses, smashed vases, tore the books from their cases. Your maid tried to put it all back to rights, but yes, I’m certain.”
Deep tremors shook their way up her body. “He was very angry with me, even before I left. That morning in Exeter he seemed consumed by jealousy—”
“Which was how it looked at first glance, or was meant to look. Yet it was not simply the work of a man hurt and enraged at the loss of a mistress. He was searching for something that he thinks you have, or had, perhaps.”
“But I have nothing of his, except for the jewels he gave me. Surely he would not want to take them back?”
“I don’t know. God, it’s late! We both need our sleep. Yet, if you can bear it, I think you must tell me exactly what happened in Dorset, before you were cast adrift in that dinghy. Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” she agreed, grateful for the consideration that allowed her a night’s reprieve. The image of Lord Hanley slashing up her bed with a knife was going to haunt her dreams. “And, yes, I can bear it—though I doubt if I’ll sleep much tonight after what you’ve just told me.”
“Neither will I,” he said. “Though perhaps for different reasons.”
Miracle thrust her anxiety aside and smiled as she gestured toward the camp. “Meanwhile, Mr. Faber’s company is sleeping like a baby, in spite of the disaster of missing tonight’s performance.”
“Thanks to Ophelia’s fecundity! But they’d anyway planned to stay here tonight. In the morning the troupe heads north toward Buxton, and tomorrow night the play will be performed in a barn near a village called Hulme Down. You still wish to play Ophelia?”
“Why not? We might as well travel north with the Fabers as far as that, at least, and if they give us their food and their protection, we must do our best to save their play for them, as well.”
His gaze was disturbingly perceptive, but he laughed. “You think the play can be saved? I have certain misgivings about Hamlet’s being performed as a farce.”
She struck a dramatic pose. “‘Oh, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!’”
“Instead, I could borrow a horse from that farmhouse down there to ride into the nearest town to demand all the rights and considerable privileges of my position.”
Her renewed fear made it tempting: to let him fetch a carriage and horses to speed her to Dillard’s house—and straight into another encounter with Lord Hanley?
“We can’t let the Fabers down.”
He raised a brow. “You would risk discovery, simply for the sake of one more bad performance of Hamlet?”
“We gave our word, Ryder.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that.”
She felt frantic to convince him, though she knew she was only trying to find rationalizations for herself. She had always tried to live by a code of honor—yet this time it might indeed be at risk of her life.
“It would anyway take you some time to arrange other transportation, and meanwhile, Lord Hanley will never think to look for us among the traveling players. There’ll be no one in the audience tomorrow night except locals, and we’ll be in costume. Obviously we’ll do as little as we can to attract attention otherwise.”
“Which is the only reason why I’m agreeing to this insanity.”
“I’ll put myself at your disposal after the performance to travel in any way that you wish. I promise.”
He took her hand and turned it up, then traced the curves and hollows with one finger, as if he might find the secret of the Gordian Knot written in her palm. Heat spread from his touch, as if her veins soaked up sunlight.
“And meanwhile our play will go on?” he asked lightly.
“I don’t think we can escape it,” she said. “You’ve certainly made plenty of dramatic entrances and exits in my life so far.”
His pulse throbbed against hers as he closed his fingers. “It’s not only the play that I can’t escape, but the passion. Whatever the consequences, I cannot fight that any longer, Miracle.”
She searched his dark gaze, pinned by her heartbreaking need to be honest—simply because he was too fine to be lied to?
“No, a dark thread of desire binds us at the moment. Yet you mustn’t forget—in fact, I promise it will be the only thing that matters in the end—that I’m a lady of the night. I’m good at it. That’s what I am.”
“No,” he replied with absolute certainty. “That’s what you’ve done. It’s not who you are.”
She slipped her fingers from his and walked away. “Whereas you’re exactly what your birth made you. You were wrong when you said you’d be nothing if you were stripped of the power of your position. That power is who you are. You can’t shed it, any more than you can shed your skin.”
“I’m going to be a duke, whether I like it or not.”
“And you like it.”
“I’d better,” he said. “A title isn’t something one may renounce. I have responsibilities to thousands of people besides myself. Material assets come with the position, of course, but only if I husband them.”
“Whereas my destiny was to scrabble for every penny from the day I was born. If we’d met under different circumstances, you wouldn’t have hesitated to set me up as your mistress. You’d have done so expecting to tire of me eventually. And since you’re an extremely wealthy man, I’d have driven the hardest bargain I could manage.”
“So what’s happened instead?”
A fox ran, loping across a far hillside, head turned for an instant as if the animal looked directly into her heart.
“Nothing that can be allowed to matter,” she said.
He caught her hand again and spun her to face him. “We shan’t solve it tonight. Come, let me escort you back to Hamlet’s wagon!”
“Alas, he and Rosencrantz like their privacy. So I’m sharing with the Fabers, who are past the age of any such nonsense.”
Ryder brought her knuckles to his mouth and kissed them. “Really? I don’t believe there’s any male alive who would agree to that statement.”
She laughed and kissed his fingers in turn. Hand in hand, they walked back across the dark field to the camp. Miracle stood on tiptoe and kissed him once again on the mouth, using every ounce of her control to keep it light and friendly, though contact only fanned the flames. Before he had time to regret his resolutions, she slipped inside the largest tent.
Ryder stood for a long time staring up at the Milky Way, before he strode away to his wagon and crawled back into his empty bed.
His hot craving for the gifts of her body would sear him for the rest of his days. He had never before lived every moment of every day with this crackling erotic spark charging every breath. Yet Miracle possessed an extraordinary strength of mind, as well, along with a bright intelligence and audacity that had allowed her to survive, even flourish, in a world he knew to be cruel.
She knew she was taking a risk to take part in the Fabers’ play, yet she would do it simply because she had given her word. And—God! It must have taken all the courage she possessed to be so honest with him.
The obvious solution—if he could only somehow clear her of the charge of murder—was, of course, to make her his mistress.
Yet something in him still rebelled at the thought—that to use her in such a way would inevitably demean her? The dread that she was right in her judgment about men and would prove him to be no different from all the others, after all? Or simply that she would in the end demonstrate that she was more honorable than he?
Meanwhile, what was he really risking? The Duke of Blackdown’s privileged elder son with all the wealth and power of the
St. Georges at his fingertips?
Whatever he wished to the contrary, Miracle was right: He could guarantee her nothing, not even himself.
THE next morning’s journey allowed them no privacy at all. Miracle laughed and joked with the other players in the second wagon, while Ryder rode with Mr. Robert Faber in the first one. It was some time since he had read Hamlet. If he was to play Fortinbras and other assorted gentlemen, he must learn his lines. Yet he kept looking up from the book in his hand as other characters’ words burned in his mind.
Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.
As they crossed into Derbyshire, the landscape began to look familiar. If he strode into any bank in any of the nearby towns, Lord Ryderbourne could replenish his empty pockets. If His Lordship sent a message to Wrendale, he would have a carriage and servants immediately at his disposal to take Miracle straight to her brother’s house.
Yet he said nothing. He agreed with Miracle that they were temporarily safe from Hanley’s pursuit. They certainly owed the Fabers that night’s performance. And these might be his last days and nights with the woman who had turned his world upside down.
It was as if she had lit a slow fuse in his heart. Whenever he glanced at her, his pulse quickened. If he allowed himself memories of their lovemaking, the explosive flames of passion would consume him. Yet images of her face and her quicksilver laugh stirred him just as profoundly, and sent a deeper, hotter fire burning into his soul.
He tried to force himself to see reality.
Miracle had purchased not only a horse and saddle with her body that first night in Brockton. She had also purchased his silence and his cooperation. Why else had she seduced him with such stunning expertise? She had known that once he had shared her bed, he could never allow himself to become the agent of her destruction.
Give me that man that is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him in my heart’s core—
How seriously, even now, was he fooling himself? After all, as soon as she’d no longer needed him, she’d only wanted him to leave.
“Cousins,” Mr. Robert Faber said, his eyes twinkling. “It’s none of my business, Mr. Devon. But cousins?”
Ryder looked up. Lord Hamlet is a prince out of thy sphere. This must not be.
“Ho hum!” Mr. Faber scratched at his chin. “I’ve seen much of the world in my day, sir, and I know when a man is in love with a woman. Yet he doesn’t usually pretend that they’re cousins.”
Ryder closed the copy of Hamlet. “You wish to offer any other observations, Mr. Faber?”
“Ha! You won’t browbeat me with that haughty air, sir! You’re no more Mr. Devon than I’m the King of England. In fact, I’d say you’re the kind of man who could normally crack open the world like a nut to take whatever he wants. And so I ask myself: Why not this time—and with a woman as lovely as Aphrodite? But then, I suppose—if she can slay the audience tonight as well as she’s slain you—it’s not my concern.”
“Exactly,” Ryder said. “Though I shake in my boots at your perspicacity, sir.”
Mr. Faber winked and whipped up his team. “You never shake in your boots at anything, if I read you aright, Mr. Devon. But whatever your secrets, they’re safe enough with this company.”
The horses broke into a ponderous trot. Ryder laughed and returned to his study of the play.
BY late afternoon the wagons had begun the climb up toward the heart of Derbyshire. A small drizzle eased away across the hills. A watery sun sparked gilt highlights in the rattle of shields and pikes and helmets. As the horses leaned into their collars, most of the younger players jumped down from the wagons and started to walk.
Ryder strode back to find Miracle. She glanced up from her conversation with Sam. They were talking about the play. The actor smiled at Ryder as he joined them.
“There’s a shortcut,” Sam said, pointing. “That path over the hill up there cuts off a couple of miles. We’ll rejoin the wagons on the other side at an inn called the Jolly Farmer. See you there!”
He ran off after Rosencrantz, who had already set off up the path. Miracle and Ryder dropped behind the rest of the troupe, where they could be private.
“You want to know about Dorset,” she said after a moment.
“After what we discussed last night, I think I have to know now.” He took a deep breath and looked away, before he should be tempted to touch her.
Damp had soaked into her hair, tied back carelessly in a ribbon, so that small wisps rioted about her face. Sunlight smoothed over her cheek, where the bruises had faded to a soft shade of ocher. Though her sensual loveliness fired his most primitive cravings, something in the depths of her eyes radiated an extraordinary compassion and serenity. Was that the source of his deepest yearnings? That she seemed to know exactly who she was and accepted it?
“Why have you refused to tell me before?” he asked.
“Because whatever you think you understand about me, what I’m going to tell you now will only further upset it.”
“No, it won’t,” he said. “Try me. Just begin at the beginning and don’t stop until you get to the end.”
She stopped for a moment, gazing up the path. The dull shadow of distress darkened her eyes and settled at the corners of her mouth. A distress that kisses would not cure.
“Lord Hanley had been my protector for some months when I agreed to accompany him to Exeter. He’d bought a new yacht there. Not just a small sailing boat, but a seagoing craft that was fitted out to rival the King’s. We were to sail together to the Isle of Wight, where he’d promised me a house for the summer. Yet when we reached Exeter, we were joined by Philip Willcott.”
He tried to keep his voice dispassionate. “You’d met Willcott before?”
Picking up her skirts, she started back up the path. “Occasionally. Lord Hanley sometimes brought him to my house in London, though I made no secret of my dislike of the man. Something about him made my blood run cold.”
Ryder followed, staying one step behind her. Her neck seemed very fragile beneath the weight of bundled hair.
“I’ve never heard of him. What kind of person was he?”
“Not the kind one would expect to be the bosom friend of an earl, certainly.” She stepped around a small puddle. “A lump of coal trying to be mistaken for a diamond, and filled with resentment that his fate was always to be fuel for someone else’s fire, when he longed to decorate tiaras, instead. Perhaps he hoped that intimacy with Lord Hanley would give him enough superficial shine to impress, though he would always remain black at the core.”
“I know the type. Why did he come to Exeter?”
“I don’t know. I was barely civil to him. I went up to bed. He and the earl sat up late in a private parlor in the inn, drinking together.”
“You’ve no idea what they were talking about?”
She glanced back at him with a kind of wry bravado. “Only that in the depths of some wine-soaked discourse, Lord Hanley promised Willcott that they would share my favors later that night. The earl sent me up a message to that effect, so that I could make myself ready.”
“To share your favors?” His step faltered. “For God’s sake!”
Her lips curved in a kind of painful, ironic mirth. “It’s never been your fantasy to share a lady’s bed with a friend?”
“No!”
Her head turned away as if she swallowed laughter. “Ah, Sir Galahad! The innocent abroad! Perhaps you prefer the idea of two ladies sharing your bed, instead?”
Heat flooded his body, as much discomfort as outrage. “Is this what it means—?”
“To be a courtesan to the English aristocracy?” She marched ahead, her skirts lifted in both hands. “It often enough means things that you obviously can barely imagine.”
“I’m not quite such an innocent,” he said. “Much to my regret, my imagination is in perfect working order.”
She shaded her eyes with one hand as she
turned to look back at him. He couldn’t read her expression, but her stance was defiant.
“Then don’t imagine too much. Within certain obvious limits, I’ve always dictated my own terms. I’d already made it clear to Lord Hanley that Willcott was never to be part of our bargain. When I received the earl’s message, I dressed, came down, and said so.”
Relief was too mild a word. Something very close to elation surged in Ryder’s blood. In three strides he had joined her, and they started up the path again.
“I can certainly imagine that Hanley was . . . annoyed?”
“I felt some annoyance of my own.”
“In fact, you were furious?”
Miracle nodded. “A little righteous anger always helps one to be brave. Yet Lord Hanley simply shrugged and told his friend to leave. Willcott bowed and called for his horse. The earl and I went up to bed. That should have been an end of it. Yet I felt—I don’t know—this bizarre intensity in their exchange. I was unnerved. Then when we reached our room, I thought the earl seemed—”
He kept his tone as gentle as he could. “You were afraid of him?”
She shivered and hugged herself. “At that moment I was terrified. Though he’d pretended not to care when I rejected Willcott, Lord Hanley was very deeply angry about it. I was afraid of what he might do in the grip of that rage, so that night I pretended that nothing was wrong.” His fists closed involuntarily. Ryder felt as haunted as any man facing martyrdom. “You made love?”
“What we did in bed together isn’t relevant.”
“But Hanley was still your protector.”
“Yes, of course. However, I never share with other gentlemen what happens in the bedroom.”
He felt as if he had been kicked in the belly: wretched that he wanted to know, wretched that he had been cad enough to ask, wretched that she was having to relive this.
The path just ahead led past a cluster of ruins: the remains of a small keep, abandoned hundreds of years earlier. The stone walls perched on a rocky outcrop, where water coursed down through a deep gorge from the sudden swell of the Peaks just ahead. Miracle spun aside from the path to run under an arched doorway into the grassy inner bailey. A spiral stair led up to the top of the ruin. She raced up to the crumbling battlements.