“Marta!” Fontaine exclaimed, rising to her feet, her hands wringing nervously. “What a thing to say! You well know it is all a farce.”
“I well know it is all not! That is what I know,” Marta countered. “Don’t let him vanish from yar life, lassy. Ya’ll never recover from it, and that’s just what she’s wantin’.”
The hot sting of tears irritated Fontaine’s eyes. “He has his own life, Marta…his own agenda. Helping me has simply been the fulfillment of an obligation and…”
“Oh, posh!” Marta exclaimed. “I’ve seen the way ya two mingle up, I have,” she said. “There aren’t no farce there.” Marta stood and walked to Fontaine. Placing her hands on Fontaine’s shoulders, she looked into her eyes and said, “Ask him, lass. Ask him to keep ya with him, and see what he answers.”
For a moment, Fontaine considered Marta’s suggestion. Perhaps she should confess her love to Knight, confess she felt she might perish without him. Perhaps he would not leave her then. Perhaps he cared enough for her to…
“No, Marta,” Fontaine said. “His agenda…his feelings are not the same as my own, and I will not heap guilt upon him. How would I ever be happy wondering if he kept to me out of simple obligation? Or worse…pity?” When Marta only shook her head with disappointment, Fontaine explained further, “I…I sense he’s akin to a wild horse…that he’s ever cherished his freedom, his lack of being bound to any place or anyone. He’d choke being bound to someone who tried to tether him.”
“Then ya don’t know him as well as I thought ya did,” Marta said. As her eyes narrowed she added, “Or else…or else these are the things ya tell yarself to give ya comfort…to find the strength to let him go. That’s it, isn’t it, lass?”
Fontaine sighed and wiped a tear from her cheek. “I’ll be in the garden, Marta. I’ll arrange a few pink hyacinths for my chambers…if no one will have them at a table.”
Quickly, Knight strode down the hall and into the library, his innards still trembling, the emotional result of the conversation he’d overheard between Fontaine and Marta. He was rather embarrassed of himself, not for eavesdropping, but rather for being so deeply affected by what he’d heard and understood. His heart had taken to beating like a savage drum, perspiration gathering thick on his brow when he’d heard the two women mention his keeping Fontaine. And his heart beat wildly, his brow was heavy with perspiration, not for fear of being tethered, but for fear of the lack of it.
Perhaps he should just abduct the girl, carry her home, force her into marriage in the hopes she would forgive his falsehoods. The thought even crossed his mind, I’ll seduce her, corrupt her virtue, and her awareness to decency alone would find her willing to marry me. But he would never bend to such lowness of deeds, even for the ache, which had been growing harsher and harsher in center of his heart. He would never defile his beloved peach, body or spirit.
Knight closed his eyes, tried to calm his breathing, but this brought only vivid visions of Fontaine, of little golden-haired daughters and sons, born to him of her.
“I thought I had made it clear I wanted to speak to you after dinner, Knight,” the witch said. Knight’s eyes opened, a frown furrowing his brow as he saw Lady Wetherton rise from a nearby chair and move toward him. “Still, I suppose I should speak to you now…why prolong the inevitable?”
“Milady?” Knight mumbled as he looked at the demon woman before him.
“The time has come, Knight,” she explained plainly, “For you to quit my niece.”
“I see,” he said.
Lady Wetherton smiled a sickly smile. “You seem rather pale, Knight. Do not make pretense you have come to actually care for the chit.”
Knight knew he must play the game carefully. Although his emotions were whirling about like a waterspout in him, he must be guarded.
“I only pity the young miss, milady,” he said. “Lord Greenville is thrice her age, and as ugly as the preacher’s parrot.”
Lady Wetherton laughed and reaching up, caressed Knight’s cheek with the back of her hand. Knight stood strong and still, resisting the temptation to take her hand in his vice’s grip, crushing her bones to powder.
“So,” she whispered. “You’ve guessed at my choice of a husband for Fontaine.” Raising one eyebrow and caressing Knight’s other cheek, she added, “Still, he is of great means, and she will want for nothing. So, do not worry yourself too greatly over her well being, sweet boy.”
“When am I to end the charade?” Knight asked.
Lady Wetherton sighed. “Tomorrow,” she said. “Quickly and unexpectedly. Let’s not draw the pain out too long. You’ll tell her tomorrow that you’ve…you’ve found other amusements.” Lady Wetherton took one of Knight’s hands in her own. “And I’ll tell her two days hence of Lord Greenville’s proposal. This will give her something to look forward to…something to ease the sting of losing her lover.”
Knight forced an agreeing nod, understanding all too well the woman’s intent…that the sting of losing her lover would only be increased a hundredfold by being told she was to wed Lord Greenville.
“Very well, milady,” Knight mumbled. Then, reaching into his vest pocket, he withdrew a parchment.
“What’s this?” Lady Wetherton said smiling. She unfolded the parchment, and Knight watched her eyes narrow as she read it.
“Your astuteness pleases me, Knight,” she said. “We are more akin than even I thought.”
“Yes, milady,” he said. “And I will follow your instructions…I will quit the young miss…as soon as the parchment is signed and in my possession.”
Knight had always known he would have to appear unaffected when the time came for Lady Wetherton to demand he break Fontaine’s heart. And so, he’d had a solicitor in the city draw up a legal article for the lady to sign, stating he was to be paid the sum originally promised him.
“I know milady would never falsely accuse,” he told her. “Still, there is wisdom in my owning such a document stating I earned the sum and did not otherwise abscond with it.”
Lady Wetherton laughed, obviously amused by his distrust in her. “Very well, Knight. Very well. You shall have the document back, complete with my signature, after dinner this evening. And tomorrow you will quit the chit. Agreed?”
“Agreed, milady,” Knight said. Although he thought it impossible to do so, his loathing of the witch increased tenfold as she raised herself, kissing him lingeringly on one cheek before leaving him alone in the library. She wore too much rose scent, and her lips were cold and repulsive. If ever the poets envisioned a witch, Lady Carileena Wetherton was the embodiment of it.
Once Lady Wetherton had left the library, Knight slammed one powerful fist into the wood of a nearby bookshelf. Yet there was not time for anger. The witch had ended the charade two weeks earlier than Knight had hoped. And although the majority of the conspiracy’s pieces were in place, there was still much to do. All the worse was the fact he must inform Fontaine of her aunt’s hurried treachery. Still, Knight had no intention of quitting his lover in her darkest hour. The greater number of the times he’d stolen her away, whether for meaningful conversation or for significant hours spent rapt in passion, Fontaine’s aunt had been quite unaware of their meeting. Yet the witch may be more watchful now, wanting to ensure the farce was quitted, her niece’s young heart truly in tatters.
And so, Knight resigned himself to careful progression. But he would make certain Fontaine knew it was careful progression and not adherence to her aunt’s demands that would keep him at bay.
He would quicken his plans, make ready his accomplices, but it could wait. All of it could wait, for he would have Fontaine in his arms this night. Yes, he thought, the rogue in him swelling full ready, I will have her for myself this night…the full length and breadth of it.
The night was cool. Overly cool to justify the window being open in Fontaine’s bedchamber. Still, it was, for the scents and senses of the spring night at The Graces were meant to
be savored, and Fontaine meant to savor them.
The last call of the meadowlarks was on the breeze billowing the window’s lace curtains, and the sweet fragrance of hyacinth perfumed the room as well. Fontaine smiled, amused at the thought of having the window open whilst a fire burned warm in the hearth. Still, to Fontaine, this was spring…the time when temperature was in midpoint and fresh air was as needed as a fire’s warmth.
Sighing, she snuggled beneath her bedding, anxious to take pleasure in the wonder of her first night back in the arms of The Graces. She closed her eyes, images of Knight begging to fill her dreams, and she listened…listened to the fire in the hearth, its familiar crackle soothing her. Listened to the breeze whispering through her window.
“Are you sleeping, peach?” Fontaine gasped as she felt Knight’s hand cover her mouth, felt his breath on her neck as he spoke. “Shhh,” he whispered, putting an index finger to his lips.
“Whatever are you doing, Knight?” she asked.
Knight brushed a lock of hair from Fontaine’s forehead, and her body shivered with delight of his touch.
“I have come to ask…” he began, and Fontaine’s eyes widened as Knight proceeded to climb onto the bed, stretching out beside her. “Are your wits about you, peach? Is your courage steadfast?”
“Wh…wh…why have you come to ask me these things?” she stammered, nervously distracted by the way he reached over her, letting his torso rest atop her own as he toyed with a long strand of her hair, the fire of his eyes flickering enchantingly in the firelight of the room.
“Because, I have been…this very afternoon…ordered to quit you,” he said, placing a persistent kiss on her chin.
“What?” Fontaine exclaimed as panic pierced her heart. She tried to sit up, but the weight of Knight’s body on her own, prevented it.
“I’m to quit you, peach,” he told her softly. “Tomorrow. And I’ve two years’ wages in my pocket…making me a wealthy man, however momentarily, for we will make good use of your aunt’s contribution to your escape. Still, being that I am, at this moment, a man of wealth… perhaps I may be deemed worthy of a night spent in your bed.”
“Hush, Knight!” Fontaine exclaimed. “I cannot believe you would speak aloud such a thing as to imply…” Knight’s amused chuckling reminded her he was only in jest, and she smiled at him.
“Oh, how I enjoy seeing the astonished expression on your lovely face…that brief and fleeting moment before you realize I am in jest,” he said. “Or…at least, the moment before you suppose I am in jest.”
Fontaine could not fight the temptation to reach up and place her hand to his cheek. He was so handsome! And such the true hero, her rescuer.
“I’ll not have you spending all you’ve earned to my flight from her. The sum I have with Mr. Dennis will more than suffice expenses and…” she began, relishing the feel of his rough whiskers beneath her palm.
“Shhh,” he whispered, frowning. “The sum is yours, in truth…for any gain she has comes from you, your inheritance.” Suddenly shy, Fontaine made to draw her hand from his cheek, but he caught it with his own, pressing her palm to his lips.
“And now for the details of the plot to extract you from your aunt’s treacherous clutches,” he said, rolling to his back and tucking his hands under his head. Fontaine scolded herself for delighting so in his proximity. His gestures, climbing into her bed, toying with her hair, and now simply staying beside her as they talked, were so very comforting and gave her great security, for the moment.
“Here is how the game is to be played, peach,” he began. “Your trunks are already filled and readied, being we just arrived at The Graces today.” He paused, frowned, and looked to her. “You haven’t emptied your trunks as yet, have you?”
“No. Not yet,” she told him, unable to keep from smiling at him.
“Good. In truth, it works to our benefit…her order that I should quit you. Your trunks are filled and ready to move. Big William and I, under pretense of helping Daniel haul away various and sundry garden debris, will load your trunks into the debris wagon, covering it with thick, thorn-infested garden rubble. I will then drive the wagon out to the woods…to unload the debris, naturally. However, a hired man and his conveyance will meet me in the woods, unseen…and will take your trunks all the way to Yoke Mortan.”
“Then it is to Yoke Mortan I go,” Fontaine whispered. She had heard of Yoke Mortan, its lovely country gardens and cottages. Somehow her fear of leaving, of going to a stranger’s home, lightened a bit, replaced by an odd sense of adventure.
“Yes. To Yoke Mortan,” Knight confirmed. He rolled onto his side then, resting his head on one hand, supported by his elbow. His eyes glowed with the fire of excitement as he continued, “Two days after your trunks have been delivered to the woods, so to speak…a coachman will arrive in those same woods and wait…”
“Wait?” Fontaine urged.
“Yes, peach,” Knight whispered, reaching out and twisting around one finger the ribbon securing her nightdress at her throat. “He will wait, while we, under the cover of night, of darkness, quit your aunt.” He smiled at her and tugged at the ribbon, loosening the bow. “For our journey you will dress in mourning clothes, complete with thick, black veils. Therefore, if we are stopped or questioned for any casual or other reason, I will say you are in mourning…having lost your dear husband of late.”
Fontaine swallowed, nervous of his toying with the bow of her nightdress. Still, he continued, “It is one day’s and half another’s journey to Yoke Mortan, and we will take it in full. We will not stop for the night, for I do not want to risk discovery. Your aunt will have the constable and his hounds on us as quick as a cricket, so it is best we not stop.” Fontaine’s hand went to the ribbon at her throat when one final tug from Knight’s fingers caused it should unravel completely. He pushed her hand away and continued to twist the ribbon around his finger.
“And when we arrive at Yoke Mortan?” Fontaine asked. Oh, how she wished he would answer, When we arrive, I shall whisk you off to nearest parsonage, marry you, and stay by your side forever. But he did not answer it.
“When we arrive, I shall take you to a place much like this. Hunter’s Bingham, the estate of my good friend Lady Penelope Lightender. She is elderly and in want of a young lady to keep her company and be her friend. I have written to her of you, and she cannot wait for you to come to her.” Knight released the ribbon he had been toying with, letting his hand encircle Fontaine’s throat in a tender manner of caressing her.
“I trust her to keep you safe at Hunter’s Bingham,” he whispered, kissing her cheek tenderly.
“And you?” Fontaine could not resist asking. Already her senses were tingling with the thrill of his touch, the anticipation of receiving his kiss.
“What would you have me do, peach?” he whispered. “I may be recognized in Yoke Mortan, thereby endangering your hiding place.” He pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. “Your aunt will be exceedingly driven to find you…and me. However, if I am found some way away from Yoke Mortan, what reason would she have to search for you there?”
Fontaine gasped in horror and took his face in her hands, searching his eyes with her own. “You mean to distract her? To serve as a decoy for my sake?” She had never imagined Knight would continue to place himself in jeopardy for her sake. What he said was sensible, yes…but likewise very dangerous.
“Of course, lover,” he said, smiling. “Did you imagine otherwise?”
Suddenly Fontaine’s mind, her heart could endure no more. She had agonized over the thought of giving him up to save herself, to avoid being married to Lord Greenville, to keep Marta and Big William, Daniel, and the other servants safe. But to know he would be at risk even after she was safely deposited in Yoke Mortan? To have him teasingly call her lover? It was too heartbreaking.
“You are to quit me, Knight. Then quit me!” she exclaimed in a whisper, tears filling her eyes. “For I am no lover to you and well we both know it.”
>
“Do we?” he whispered, his thumb caressing the hollow of her throat. Fontaine could no longer prevent the tears from escaping her eyes.
“Come, Knight,” she choked. “Do not make pretense you have conducted this affair with me in the same manner as you have those with your other, no doubt, plentiful lovers of the past?”
His eyes narrowed as he looked at her, and Fontaine, humiliated by her inability to restrain her emotions, wiped angrily at the tears on her cheeks.
“No,” he mumbled. “You are right…in part. However prejudiced in your assumption that I wander carelessly from lover to lover you may be…you are right in regard to the other.” Fontaine cursed the prolific flow of tears that now traveled over her cheeks. “For one word from you, my peach,” he whispered, his hand encircling her throat gently once more. “One word from you, and I would not quit you or your bedchamber this night.”
“Ha!” Fontaine cried, the pain of heartache stinging her bosom. “Play the rogue all you wish, Knight, but I know you better than you think.”
“Do you?” he whispered, caressing her cheek with the back of his hand.
“I do!” she exclaimed. “And were you truly the rogue you pretend to be, you would no more value my reputation, my safety, or my virtue any more than that of a common…” Knight’s hand over her mouth stilled her words.
“One word, peach,” he whispered, covering her upper body with his own as he gazed into her eyes. “Ask me. Say to me, ‘My courage is failing me, Knight. Pray stay…keep me company this, our last night as lovers.’ Speak it, Fontaine…and I shall prove to you that I not only value your reputation, your safety, your virtue…but I shall confirm to you that I am protector to them. And to you.” He brushed a tear from her cheek with his thumb. Fontaine closed her eyes tightly. Should she resist? Push him away? On the morrow he would be hers no more. Why lengthen the torture by keeping his company longer?
The Rogue Knight Page 10