by CJ Archer
Susanna opened the door to her bedchamber and was surprised to find a fire crackling in the hearth. Bessie knelt and applied another log.
"Thank you," Susanna said. "Did I wake you?"
"I was already awake and heard you go out. Thought I'd better get this ready for when you both came back.
Both? She'd known Susanna would bring Orlando back to her room? Susanna wanted to hug her.
"Thank you," she said again. "You may go."
Bessie hesitated. "Are you sure?"
Orlando laughed softly. "Bessie, I'm so cold. I'm not capable of doing anything to Lady Lynden tonight unless it's to fall asleep on her."
"It will be all right," Susanna said gently.
"If you need anything, I'll be in the guest chamber nearby," Bessie said. "Just for tonight." She bid them good night.
Susanna shut the door. The fire's warmth embraced her, made her fingers and nose tingle. Bessie had left a jug and cups on a table and blankets piled on the rushes near the fire. Her mother's fur-lined coat was laid across the foot of the bed.
Orlando still stood by the door, as if he was unsure where to go or what to do. It was the first good look she'd got of him since seeing him in the walled garden. His hair hung damp and limp around his face, his eyelashes were clumped together and his lips had gone blue.
"You're getting the rushes wet," she said. "Come by the fire and take off your clothes."
He began to remove his cloak, but his movements were stiff and awkward and his fingers shook. "I can't."
She helped him out of his cloak, jerkin and doublet, then peeled off boots, netherstocks, and hose and finally his shirt until he was gloriously naked. And shivering violently.
"Oh Orlando," she whispered. "Look at you, you big fool."
He managed a one-shoulder shrug. "I'm not the one who locked the doors."
"But you were the one who refused to seek shelter in the outbuildings." She wrapped a blanket around him and directed him to sit on another she set out in front of the fire. "You would have been perfectly warm snuggling up to Silver."
"She smells of horse." He sat and drew up his knees beneath the blanket. Susanna placed two more blankets around his shoulders but he caught her hand. "Forget about me, you need to get out of your clothes too."
"I will, but you're still cold."
"I'll warm up faster when I see you naked."
"That won't stop you catching your death."
"No, but it will make death so much sweeter."
She turned her back and removed her clothes then wrapped the fur coat around her shoulders. She breathed in the scent of the lavender that Bessie had stored with it to keep the moths away. The fur was so warm, so blessedly warm.
"Come here," Orlando murmured.
She knelt beside him and touched his cheek. Another shiver wracked him. "You're still frozen," she said.
"I can think of a way to warm up."
"So can I. I'll get another blanket."
He caught her arm. "Lie with me, Susanna." His voice was full of the heat his body lacked. "It's the best way to warm up and you know it."
"It may also be the most foolish way."
He tucked a damp lock of her hair behind her ear. "Then call me a fool." He shucked the blankets off then helped her out of the coat. He laid it over the blanket covering the rushes and indicated she should lie down. She stretched out on the coat, the soft fur caressing her skin, sliding between her fingers and toes. He lay beside her and arranged the blankets over them both.
He groaned when their bodies touched. "Better," he murmured. "Much, much better."
His body rippled with another shiver and she wrapped her arms around him, held him close. He nuzzled into her throat and soon his skin felt warm against hers. His soft breathing became deep and rhythmic as he fell into slumber. She closed her eyes but did not sleep. It wasn't because she feared him. She did not. Not anymore. But an overwhelming sadness consumed her. Orlando Holt had lied to her from the very beginning and he'd done it so convincingly.
How could she believe anything he said ever again?
Some time later, as the sun cracked through the clouds, he woke up. He looked at her from beneath heavy lids. "You saved me," he murmured.
She withdrew her arms and shifted a little away. He didn't try to close the gap but the sleepiness vanished. "If you'd gone to the village or to the stables, I wouldn't have needed to."
It was a long time before he spoke again. "Susanna...why didn't you tell me about the message? Why didn't you give me a chance to explain?"
"Explain? Ha!" She sat up and dragged one of the blankets with her but the edge was stuck under his hip. "How can I believe your explanations, Orlando? You have lied to me at every turn. I cannot trust a single thing you say anymore."
He propped himself up on his elbow and frowned at her. "Is that what you think?"
"You would have come up with an explanation that sounded perfectly reasonable. That's how you do it, isn't it? Tell me something I either want to believe, or something that is close enough to the truth that it's plausible." She wrenched the blanket out from under him and flung it around herself as she got up. "I will not be treated like a fool."
"I don't think you're a fool, Susanna. I never have."
She stoked the glowing coals in the fireplace and laid kindling over the top. He came up behind her and kissed her throat.
She pushed him away. "Stop it. I don't want you touching me." Touching led to making love and that led to her believing she could trust him. She would not make that mistake again.
He sat back down on the fur cloak. She knew because she could feel the loss of him and hear the rustle of blankets and his small sigh. She stayed near the fire to warm up and banish the cold that had seeped into her again.
"I have a brother," he said. "He lives in London. I don't have a sister in Salisbury. I don't have a sister at all."
"Is this supposed to make me believe you now? You think telling me about your family will cancel out the lies?"
"No. I know I've lost your trust and I know I'll have to work very hard to win it back."
She swung round. "It is not a prize to be won nor is it something you can retrieve like a lost buckle at the bottom of a pond."
He swallowed hard and nodded once. "My brother's name is Thomas. We don't get along anymore. My mother died five years ago, my father a year before her. He was a merchant who imported goods from the Continent and the Orient. My brother took over the business when he died."
"I don't need to hear this." But a part of her wanted to hear it. A very large part. She turned her back on him and pulled the edges of the blanket closer at her chest even though the fire blazed.
"My father was an ambitious man. He prized money and position above everything. Our house was—is—large. We employed many staff. My brother and I had London's finest academic tutors, as well as fencing and archery masters, our own horses... Whatever a boy could want. We were indulged, and I'm not too proud to tell you that indulgence almost ruined me. In a way, Thomas was fortunate. Inheriting the business and the responsibilities of our family and his new wife gave him purpose. He didn't follow the same path as me."
"What path was that?"
"The one that led to me almost throwing my life away. Thomas set me to work in the warehouse. I counted goods until my eyes felt like they'd fall out. I talked to merchants who were just like my father—greedy and self-important. I despised it. Day in, day out, I worked in that windowless warehouse and at night I sat through endless dinners so my brother could rise through the Guild's ranks as Father had done. I don't blame Thomas for wanting to become Master of the Guild. It was bred into him as eldest son that he would one day achieve it. I don't blame him at all for putting me in a place that drove me mad."
"You went mad?"
"In a manner. I could feel myself leeching away, all my drive and desires just fading. I felt like I was suffocating, like the walls were closing in around me. If that's not madness, then I don't know what
is."
"What changed? How did you get away?"
"My frustration led me to the alehouses, and that led me to fights and women. A lot of both, I'm sorry to say. I spent time at the Marshalsea Prison for affray."
Susanna gasped, but covered her mouth when he winced at her shock. "Is that why you left? To escape your reputation?"
"Not quite. I came out of prison and continued my life as it was before. Nothing had changed. Until one night I ended up in the bed of a woman who'd led me to believe she was a widow."
"She wasn't?"
"Her husband was very much alive. As was his brother. They learned my name, but instead of setting upon me, they went to my house. I wasn't home, but my family was. They beat Thomas and terrified his wife May and the maids until thankfully, some of the male servants overpowered them. When I found out what happened, I hunted them down."
"And?"
"And I did what I felt was necessary to keep my family safe. Then I left London immediately. I knew my brother would survive by then, but I couldn't face him or May. I'd become the sort of man I despised and I needed to leave that behind. Start afresh."
He spoke with detachment, like a narrator but one who lacks passion for the story. Was it his way of protecting himself from the memories and the loss of his family?
"Is that when you became...an assassin?"
Orlando held his breath. It was the question he'd been dreading. Her reaction, he dreaded even more. "I'm not supposed to tell you that."
She blinked at him with those big, beautiful eyes that were usually so vibrant but were now cloudy. Despite everything he knew about her, her life, and the hardships she'd endured, there was innocence in them. She was no fool, but she was too trusting. It was one of the things he adored about her.
"Then don't," she said, turning away.
"I'm not supposed to, but I will." Hughe be damned. If he found out and wanted Orlando to leave the Guild, then so be it. Orlando could always work alone, or perhaps band together with Monk. He simply could not have Susanna distrusting him anymore, and the only way to gain her trust was to tell the truth in everything.
She rested her chin on her drawn up knees, the blanket still around her. The room was much warmer now and he dropped his blankets to his waist. The flare of desire in her gaze burned brightly, albeit briefly, before she had it under control.
"Hughe saw me kill the brothers."
"Hughe?"
"The gentleman you saw in Sutton Grange and then at church. His name is Hughe St. Alban, the earl of Oxley."
"You call this Lord Oxley by his first name?"
He shrugged. "He doesn't stand on ceremony with the members of the Guild."
"The Guild?"
"The Guild of Assassins."
Her face paled. "Oh. Yes. Of course." Her fingers curled tighter into the woolen blanket.
"I was Hughe's first member, Rafe was his second, and Cole the third to join. Rafe has moved on, but Cole and I remain. You don't need to fear them, Susanna. Or me. We don't kill indiscriminately. Every one of our targets is deserving and thoroughly investigated first. We don't eliminate anyone unless we are absolutely certain of their guilt. No exceptions or mistakes. That's why you are still here today. I didn't believe you killed your husbands and there was no proof."
"What!" She sat up straight and the blanket slipped off her shoulders, exposing the swell of her breasts. Would she let him kiss her there? "What do you mean?"
"An anonymous person commissioned us to kill you. They claimed you murdered both of your husbands, but your crimes were overlooked because of your position within the community. Our client said you were a danger to other men, and especially your next husband. He paid us well, with the promise of more to come."
"This client..." she whispered. "He did not make himself known to you?"
"No. The way our network is set up, it's possible for people to employ us without ever giving away their identity. It's how we like it. Without that anonymity, most would not seek us out. This is not the first time we've had a false claim, but it is the first time we've feared for our target's safety."
She lifted the blanket again and pressed the edge to her lips. "Why? Why would someone want me...?" Tears sprang to her eyes, and he desperately wanted to move closer but didn't think he would be welcomed.
"I don't know, but I feel like I'm closer to finding out," he said. "Do you understand now why I couldn't leave last night? A locked house would hold no difficulty for someone intent on doing you harm. The only reason I didn't force my way inside was because I didn't want to scare you any more. You were terrified of me by then and going against your wishes would have worsened your fear."
She closed her eyes and rested her forehead on her knees.
"Susanna..." But there was nothing more to say. Except... "Despise me if you will. I deserve it. But please, do not fear me."
She lifted her head and wiped her damp cheeks with the blanket. He shifted closer but she shook her head. "I don't fear you, Orlando. I did, briefly, but not now. I fear...my reaction to you."
"What do you mean?"
The sad, faraway look in her eyes boded ill. Very, very ill. "I think you already know I did not enjoy happy marriages. I have the misfortune of attracting men who like me for reasons other than my character. My husbands wooed me, charmed me into marriage, and used a different but no less potent charm on my father so that he agreed to the unions. It was only after the weddings that I learned the true nature of both my husbands. They wanted a pretty wife; they did not want me. They thought I would be biddable once I was wed, and eager to please them and help further their interests. But I didn't like their politicking and being pretty wasn't enough in the end. John blamed me for not charming his influential friends, and Phillip blamed me for the same as well as for my low connections in the village. My friends. He..."
She swiped at the tears falling freely down her cheeks. Orlando sat beside her but did not touch her. She wouldn't want that.
"One day he was so angry because I defied him to visit my friend Joan. He pushed me and I fell."
"I know. And I know you lost the baby because of it."
She blinked at him. Her damp lashes clumped together above her ocean-blue eyes. "It was the second I'd lost and it...ruined my womb."
"Susanna, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"I hated Phillip after that. I hated him so much. He was not the man I married. He'd become a monster. They both did. Why, Orlando? Why does marriage change men?"
"I don't know."
"Was it me?" she whispered. "Was it my fault?"
"No, Susanna. Don't think that."
"John once said he spent his fortune so he could buy me things. Phillip also. A woman like me should have jewels and beautiful gowns, he said."
"Then they were fools. They didn't know you well enough to know what you wanted was to be loved and cherished beyond money or property or things. I pity them. They threw away the perfect woman, all because they did not understand her."
She stared at him, her wide, damp eyes filled with an intensity and wonder that clawed at his insides.
And scared him.
He let her go. "It's just a theory," he said. "Pay me no mind when I'm in this melancholic mood." Susanna had a way of casting a spell over him, making him forget what was important, what he'd worked so long to achieve, ever since leaving London and his family behind—freedom of mind and body.
"I'm going to leave Stoneleigh as soon as the danger to you is passed," he said as much to himself as to her.
She said nothing, but he felt her watching him as he inspected his damp clothes. It was agony not to turn around.
"It's for the best," she said, her voice sounding small and distant. "For both of us."
"Yes. It is." He breathed deeply. The damp-wool smell of his cloak filled his nostrils. He probably should do something with it—spread it out in front of the fire or hang it up—but for some reason he couldn't stop staring at it. Damned rain. He shiver
ed, but he wasn't cold anymore. Not like he'd been last night, wet to his skin and frozen to the bone. If Susanna hadn't relented, if he'd stayed all night out there...
But she had and that was worth something. Wasn't it?
She gently plucked the cloak from his hands. He didn't know she'd come up beside him. "Most of your clothes are still wet. You'll have to remain inside until they're dry." She laid the cloak on the rushes while he retrieved two chairs from the parlor and set them near the fire.
"That'll give you time to do something for me," he said, arranging his jerkin over the back of one of the chairs. "Two things, actually."
"Oh? Does this have something to do with the list of London merchants? I still don't see what relevance it has to who threw the knife at me yesterday."
"It may have no relevance." Or it may have a lot.
"The names are in the casket on my writing desk," she said. "I'll get them for you. What was the second thing?"
"I need to see the plan for the orange tree house."
She wrinkled her adorable little nose. "Why?"
"Because I confronted Monk yesterday and finally got some answers."
"You didn't hurt him, did you?"
"Not much."
She gave him a crooked smile. "Tell me what Monk said."
He did. He told her about the connection between Whipple, Monk, and Jeffrey which led to her late husband's involvement. It was easy to see the moment she realized the implications of it all. Her face drained of color.
"Phillip? A traitor? I...I don't believe it." She sat on the chair and shook her head over and over. "He never displayed any tendency to treason. He wasn't even Catholic! Are you sure he was involved?"
"Lord Whipple is sure and the message written in lemon juice on the plans will probably prove it. That's why Whipple wants it back, and why Jeffrey has agreed to give Whipple's man Monk all the help he can."
She frowned. "Why does Jeffrey want to help Whipple? If he's caught, it'll only throw suspicion on himself when he wasn't part of the original plot."
"Because he'll lose Sutton Hall if that letter falls into the hands of the authorities. Traitors have their lands and property stripped from them. It can be done posthumously."
"Losing Sutton Hall would devastate Jeffrey, as it would have devastated Phillip. So why did he become involved with Lord Whipple at all? It doesn't make sense."
"Phillip was an ambitious man by all account. If he thought Whipple had a good chance of succeeding with his plot then anyone who helped him would receive considerable advancement under a new monarch. It was quite a gamble, but he must have thought it one worth taking."
"A pox on him! On all men." Her glare was pointed. "You too."
"Me? Why?"
"Because you're just like the rest of them. You've charmed me, bedded me, and lied to me. It is more or less the same."
She might as well have run him through with a rapier, the stabbing in his chest hurt so much. She was right. He wasn't so different.
"You need to cover yourself," she muttered. "It's...distracting."
It took a moment for his mind to grip onto the new topic. "I'm not the only naked person in this room and you're not the only one who's distracted."
"I'm covered with a blanket at least."
"I think you can see how much that doesn't matter."
Her gaze shifted to his groin and a light blush infused her cheeks. "Hmmmm." She rose. "I'll fetch the plans then tell Bessie we need your pack from the stables for your dry clothes."
She bid him to leave her so she could dress and he wrapped a blanket around his waist and waited in the parlor until she joined him. A little while later, she did, wearing women's clothing again and he had to admit he preferred the sight of her in men's trousers than the voluminous skirt.
"Here," she said, handing him the plans. "See what you can make of it."
She left to speak to Bessie and he set the plans on the desk while he lit a taper. Carefully waving the taper beneath the paper, he watched as the lemon juice turned brown and revealed the writing.
"What have you discovered?" she asked upon returning. The sweet, heady scent she added to her bathing water enveloped him, and it took a moment before he could focus again.
"It's as Monk said. It's a correspondence from an Englishman now living in France and addressed to Lord Whipple. It includes some words of a treasonous nature, but no actual details of a plot as such. It would be enough to put Whipple in danger if it was discovered, and anyone else associated with the correspondence."
"Phillip."
Orlando nodded. "I suspect your orange grower, like you, was unaware his letters were being used in such a way."
"Claims of innocence wouldn't have been enough to exonerate us in the eyes of the authorities."
"Perhaps not."
She sank heavily to the floor and put her head in her hands. He crouched beside her but dared only touch her elbow. "How could Phillip do such a thing?" she whispered. "How could he endanger me so, and himself, for the promise of advancement?"
Orlando didn't have an answer for that. He'd never understood the need of some men to further themselves, or become richer. How could those things fulfill a man? They were just an extra noose.
"He was a fool, your husband." Orlando had no desire to throw away a perfectly good life in the hope of improving it. Not at the expense of the people he loved.
Love. Bloody hell.
"So you don't think Monk was the one trying to kill me?" she asked.
He helped her to her feet. "No. Jeffrey had no reason to want you dead."
"I don't know why he didn't just ask me to look at the letters. If he'd explained the situation, I would have given him free access to all my correspondence."
Orlando watched her as she opened one of the caskets on the writing desk and sifted through some papers. There was much to admire, and not just in her form. She had quickly rallied herself after her disappointments. She was not one to dwell on matters, or feel regret and hatred for the wrongs done to her. She appeared determined, however, not to make the same mistakes. He couldn't blame her for that.
Yet it didn't stop him from wanting to hold her, kiss her.
"Here it is," she said, handing him a list of names. "Those are the merchants I wrote to in London."
He scanned the names. He didn't recognize a single one. "These are not London merchants," he said, giving the list back to her.
"But Walter Cowdrey gave me those. He's had dealings with them in the past."
"Then Walter Cowdrey has lied to you. And I'm going to find out why."