The Sandalwood Princess

by Loretta Chase

  “I’m not surprised,” she said calmly, though the very matter-of-factness of his explanation made her heart ache. “I’d guessed you were a little devil. Still, that is a monstrous cruel way to discipline a little boy, no matter how wicked.”

  “What would you have done?” He moved closer, and in the unsteady light she discerned a familiar, intent gaze. “I know you’d have tried to understand me, because you try to understand everybody, from the great god Shiva to Jane, the scullery maid. Still, you’d have to do something. What, then?”

  Too easy to answer. She knew she would have covered that troubled, angry little boy’s face with kisses, cossetted him, spoiled him, loved him with all her heart.

  “I should not have tried to make a scholar of you,” she said carefully. “If you were a very restless child, you’d have been happier boxing, fencing, riding. There’s discipline in sports, for both mind and body. Also, vigourous physical activity would have tired you too much for mischief. Your papa tried to make you what you were not. Children should be permitted to be what they are.”

  “You think my mischief was the common sort,” he said. “It wasn’t. In addition to the usual boyish pranks, I was insolent, told lies constantly, and stole.”

  She ought to be shocked. She wasn’t. The moment she’d opened the closet door and seen his face, she’d understood. “Because you were angry and unhappy.”

  He was still studying her face. “You are bound to find a kind excuse, Miss Cavencourt Can’t you believe a human being might be born bad?”

  “I can believe that, but not of you. Surely that must be obvious,” she added hastily. “If I’d thought you intended any ill, I should have left you in the closet, or to Padji’s tender mercies. I know everyone thinks me too forgiving, Mr. Brentick. All the same, I do not always turn the other cheek. Martyrdom is not in my style.”

  “No,” he said softly. “I realise you’re not a saint.”

  His tone made her face heat. Belatedly she became aware of her bedtime attire. Despite a flannel nightdress and a robe of serviceable wool, she felt undressed and unsafe. He seemed too near, and also too much undressed. His neckcloth was gone, and his shirt had fallen open to reveal a triangle of flesh that gleamed bronze in the candlelight. She wanted to move to him, touch him. She wanted to hold him, and be held. She shivered.

  “You must be chilled to the bone,” he said. He began to pull off his coat.

  “No!” She quickly retreated. “I don’t need it. I’m going back to bed. You can take the candles. I know my way blindfolded.” She moved to the door. “Good night, Mr. Brentick,” she said. Then she fled.

  Philip could have spent the night merely writhing in mortification, but Miss Cavencourt’s knowledge of his weakness seemed the least of his troubles as he climbed into bed.

  He sat back, robbing his throbbing temples, wondering how she’d managed to make everything so deuced complicated.

  Delirious, she’d said. He felt delirious now. He could not believe he’d admitted the truth, so much truth. He could have simply pretended not to understand what she was talking about. If pressed, he need only deny.

  Yet he’d found himself trapped once again, entangled in undeserved kindness and compassion. She’d rescued him herself to spare his pride, and had not left until she’d made him well again. She’d lifted him out of the chilling darkness into sanity. With her own surprisingly strong hands she’d even wrestled the pain from his frozen body.

  Gratitude had weakened him and made him incautious. Stunned and grateful, he’d found himself unable to deny, scarcely able to manufacture a fraction of a lie.

  That wasn’t the worst, though. She’d not only explained and absolved him, but dressed him in shining armour. Of course Mr. Brentick hadn’t been spying on her. He’d bravely come to battle intruders, had accidentally overheard, and then sacrificed his own peace of mind to spare hers.

  “Oh, Amanda,” he muttered. “How could you believe that? Was there ever such a trusting little fool?” He’d wanted to shake her, had tried to do so verbally. Yet even the truth about his character only elicited more of her unendurable understanding. “Angry and unhappy,’’ she’d said. Fool, he’d answered silently. Bella was right. Miss Cavencourt would make excuses for the Devil himself.

  Perhaps she was not entirely credulous, though, Philip thought, as he sank back upon his pillow. She hadn’t altogether spared his feelings, had she, for all her compassion? She’d told him plain enough she knew not only what he’d suffered in the closet, but why, and where the terror came from. Gently though she’d worded the admission, Philip had perceived her warning as well. For now, she sympathised. Should he lose her sympathy, however, she’d not hesitate to use his weakness against him. Or rather, she’d let Padji use it. She was not naive in every way. She knew the Indian’s character and his uses. Hadn’t she used him before?

  Very well. The game had grown a shade more complicated and dangerous. He’d need to revise his plans.

  Unless someone persuaded Miss Cavencourt to end her self-imposed exile, the Laughing Princess would remain in the York bank indefinitely. She must be got to leave, and take the statue with her.

  Her ever-so-kind and understanding knight, Brentick, would never venture upon the tender subject of London Seasons again. Knowing the sordid truth, he’d respect her wishes to remain hidden in this remote place.

  Yes, she’d tied his hands in that. Frustrating it was, for he could have persuaded her easily enough in a matter of weeks. Now he must manipulate others to do the job for him.

  Cool and calculating once more, Philip clasped his hands behind his head, and prepared to spend the remaining night contemplating the tools currently at his disposal.

  Chapter Sixteen

  November swept away on icy winds and December whirled in amid a snowstorm that transformed the harsh, grey landscape to shimmering white.

  The snow brought Amanda mixed relief and disappointment. She and Mr. Brentick had taken long walks through the moors nearly every day of the last month. She knew the exercise did her good, for when she returned to her manuscript, she always felt fresh and clearheaded.

  On the other hand, to spend so much time privately with him boded ill for her peace of mind. Away from the house, he relaxed, and their conversations were those of friends, rather than mistress and servant. This was what she preferred, usually; she’d always disliked the barriers rank created. Nevertheless, she found herself wishing, in this one case, for the safety of such barriers. Feelings warmer than mere friendship had again surged to the surface. As the days passed, she found it increasingly difficult to maintain a levelheaded detachment. The snow would bring a few days respite, time in which she might talk herself round to common sense.

  On the afternoon following the storm, therefore, Amanda beheld with surprised dismay her butler’s entrance into the library. He wore a woolen overcoat, and carried in his arms a heap of clothing. Also boots, she saw with foreboding. Her boots.

  “I am not setting foot out of doors,” she said resolutely, “until June.”

  Half an hour later, she was trudging up the path that led to the moors. Mr. Brentick followed, dragging a sled.

  When they reached the top, one large, vivid anxiety immediately swamped all Amanda’s other worries. She looked at the sled, then down at the incline before them. This side of the hill seemed to have grown exceedingly steep since their last walk. She turned her panicked gaze up to him, while her heart churned with terror.

  “Haven’t you ever gone sledding before?” he asked.

  She shook her head and darted another glance at the endless, nearly perpendicular drop.

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Miss Cavencourt.”

  “I’ll watch,” she offered.

  “You’ll freeze, standing here.”

  Mr. Brentick positioned the sled, then, very firmly, herself upon it. When he took up his place behind her, fear compounded with a flood of other sensations. Two people could share a sled in only
one way, apparently, and that placed her between his legs, her back against his chest. Her heart crashed crazily at her ribs, and every muscle in her body petrified into hard knots.

  As the sled began to move, a scream rose in her throat, but caught there. She could no more scream than she could breathe. Then the world went whipping past in a flash of white and dark, while the wind blasted her face, making her eyes stream.

  Terrified, she leaned back into the hard security of his chest, her mittened hands frozen to the sides of the sled. It was awful. It was... wonderful, she discovered in the very next instant.

  This was rapture – to fly down the hillside, the cold beating at her, while the warm, strong, reassuring body held her safe and secure. Her scream broke free, but it broke into a cry of joy and breathless laughter.

  She heard his shout of laughter mingle with hers, and she felt as though he surrounded her with happiness. He seemed to vibrate with her in the wild joy of wind and speed, as they plunged headlong into the dale’s depths.

  They reached the bottom an instant or a lifetime later, and the sled glided gently to a stop. Amanda was still laughing. Her body tingled yet with the sheer joy and excitement of the ride. She gloried in the warmth of her quickened blood, and relished the delicious stinging in her cheeks.

  As their merriment subsided, she felt his chin drop to the top of her muffler-wrapped head. His arms tightened about her. Unthinkingly, she let go of the sled to relax against him while she caught her breath.

  She felt him tense. Turning her head, she saw the laughter ebb from cobalt-blue eyes and a darker emotion take its place.

  Amanda knew an instant’s flash of recognition, then came an ache within that built swiftly to unendurable pressure. The white haze of their breath mingled in the narrow space between them. His head bent lower, his eyes dark as midnight, intent and mesmerising. His mouth was a breath away... and an eternity away.

  She turned quickly, and pulled herself forward.

  After a brief hesitation, he rose and helped her up.

  He became himself again in that moment, ironically polite as he brushed snow from her coat and mittens. Amanda could not collect herself so quickly. They’d nearly reached the top of the hill before her churning brain had quieted, and her pulse steadied.

  When they reached the summit and it appeared Mr. Brentick intended to continue towards home, Amanda ought, certainly, to have been eager to return to the safety of the library. But her gaze reverted to the steep incline, and she remembered the rush of joy and the thrilling speed. She’d never before experienced anything like it. She heard herself cry out, like a child, “Oh, Mr. Brentick, aren’t we going to do it again?’’

  He’d got ahead of her. He stopped abruptly and waited until she’d caught up. “Haven’t you had enough for one day?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  He grinned. “Very well, miss.” He dragged the sled round.

  They’d climbed up and sledded down that curst hill at least fifteen times before Miss Cavencourt would admit she’d had enough. Thank Providence for the climb, Philip thought. Had any alternate means of ascending offered itself they’d likely be sledding until Judgement Day.

  He threw her an exasperated glance as they staggered through the garden. Four times her weary legs had given out, tripping her headlong or sideways or backwards into the snow. Four times she’d tumbled, and each time she simply lay there and laughed. He’d wanted to strangle her. He’d wanted to close his hands around her lovely throat... and kiss her senseless.

  Idiot. Sledding, he’d thought in all his sublime smugness, would keep her amused while also keeping her far from the house. Mrs. Gales wouldn’t like it. The widow was hardly lunatic enough to chaperone them, and risk frostbite while she stood and watched them play. No, she wouldn’t like it, and must eventually grow sufficiently alarmed to separate the pair. She’d have to take Miss Cavencourt away from Kirkoy Glenham.

  A perfect plan it had seemed, better even than the long walks. He’d believed so until the end of today’s first descent.

  He’d known she was terrified, yet knew as well she’d trust him to keep her safe. Consequently, he was not surprised when she’d succumbed almost immediately to the thrill of speed and danger. It was the rest undid him. She’d hurtled down with him, shrieking, laughing, and the sound of her happy excitement had made him wish they’d never reach the bottom. For those moments, he’d wanted only to plunge recklessly and endlessly through eternity with her. All the same, there was an end—there must be—and at the end was a woman snuggled trustingly against him: Amanda, rosy cheeked and breathless in his arms. She’d looked up at him, her eyes shining pleasure and gratitude, golden trust and...

  He wouldn’t think about that, Philip told himself as he held the door open and answered automatically whatever it was she said. He’d forgotten himself, but only the once, and only for a moment. It wasn’t such a terrible plan, as long as one was folly prepared.

  ***

  “She has missed tea again,” Mrs. Gales said grimly as she moved away from the sitting-room window. “There is still no sign of them, and it will be dark soon.”

  Bella flicked a speck of lint from the chair, and plumped up the cushion. “Your own tea’ll get cold, ma’am, and worrying won’t bring her home any faster.”

  Mrs. Gales sighed and took her seat. “They’ve gone out nearly every single day this month. Yesterday, again, she came home soaking wet. It’s a wonder she hasn’t caught her death.”

  “Yes, ma’am, but I heard Mr. Brentick scold her about that himself. And he did send her right up to get dry and change her clothes.”

  “Why must she spend so much time out of doors in the first place?” was the sharp response. “Sledding, indeed. What on earth possessed him?”

  Bella took the seat opposite. This was not the first time in recent weeks that the widow had invited her up to share a pot of tea and Padji’s delectable sandwiches. The usually imperturbable Mrs. Gales had grown increasingly agitated as the days passed and Miss Cavencourt’s intimacy with her butler increased.

  “It ain’t healthy for her to spend the whole day hunched over her papers, he says,” the abigail responded. “I do think he’s got the right of it, ma’am. Why, she looks so bright and rosy, I’d hardly know it was the same Miss Amanda. And for all she do come back fairly dripping, she’s laughing, too.”

  Mrs. Gales’s lips tightened into a rigid line as she poured a cap of tea and handed it to the maid. “She gave him a silver cigar case for Christmas,” she muttered.

  “Yes, ma’am, but she always was generous that way, you know. Not enough to load me up with frocks and underthings, but she give me a gold bracelet, she did, just as if I was a fine lady that had somewheres to wear it.”

  “Also cigars,” Mrs. Gales continued as though she hadn’t heard. “And permission to smoke in the library.”

  “She found out he was going outside at night, ma’am, and said there was no point his freezing. Her pa always liked to smoke his cigar in the library.”

  “Brentick is not her father, or her brother, or even a gentleman caller. He is her servant.” The widow set her cup down. “I don’t like to interfere. She is no green girl, but an independent young woman, and I am not her governess. I have tried to drop a hint, but she refuses to understand me.”

  “Well, ma’am, Padji talks plain enough, and she don’t want to understand him, either. Not but what it ain’t his place to say anything, no more than it’s mine. Now she won’t hardly speak to him, and the way he looks at Mr. Brentick—I declare, it gives me goose shivers, is what.”

  Mrs. Gales frowned at the tea sandwiches. “It’s not how Padji looks at him that worries me, Bella.”

  ***

  “Not there,” Amanda said, horrified. “I won’t have the entire household watching me stumbling about and falling on my—”

  “Ornamental pond,” he finished for her as he wrapped the muffler about her head. “Very well. But it’s a good hike
to the next nearest one.”

  “Can’t we go sledding instead?” she begged. “I had much rather sit and let you do all the work.”

  “You’ll like skating,” he promised. “It’s like dancing.”

  “On ice. Balancing on a couple of blades. I was never a good dancer.”

  “Obviously, you never had a good partner.”

  “But suppose the ice breaks? It’s been warmer, hasn’t it? Suppose it breaks and swallows me up and—”

  “It is a very shallow pond, miss. Furthermore, the temperature has soared nearly to the freezing point. Hardly a heat wave.”

  She fussed and worried as usual, and as usual, Mr. Brentick ignored her. Still, Amanda reminded herself, she’d been frightened of sledding at first. Now he had to devote all his energies to persuading her home again, because she couldn’t get enough of it. Winter sports had played no part in her childhood—playing formed virtually no part—and she’d no inkling what she’d missed. She felt as though she’d never been truly alive before, never, certainly, so tinglingly, vibrantly alive as this man made her feel.

  Yes, he made her feel like a child again, but not the child she’d been. Instead of that wistful, lonely little girl, he’d conjured up a noisy, giggling brat who always demanded more and more.

  All the same, when they reached the pond, Amanda wasn’t certain she wanted any, let alone more.

  “Perhaps Mrs. Gales was right,’’ she said. “I really ought not keep you so much from your duties. Perhaps we should return.”

  He was kneeling before her, fastening her skates. “Mrs. Gales objects to my idling, I take it,” he said without looking up.

  “Good heavens, not at all. She says I expect far too much of you. I think she’s right. You should not have to entertain me, in addition to everything else.”