Lovely Lying Lips

by Valerie Sherwood

  “You can come,” he said shortly. He reached down and swung her up in front of him. “Although you can take no baggage, my lady.”

  “No matter,” she said carelessly.

  And so it was that Margaret met Dev on the Great North Road.

  Constance would have been thunderstruck, as her hopeless violet gaze scanned the skies over Somerset, to know that Margaret was riding—as she herself had once ridden—mounted up before Deverell, racing through the night up the Great North Road.

  “It would seem,” Margaret said humorously, “that you’ve had some previous falling out with Hugh Dacey.”

  “Over a woman he tried to order to his bed, and who fled him in a basket atop a coach!”

  Margaret’s heartbeat seemed to slow down. Surely there could not be two such?

  “And this lady meant something to you?” she surmised.

  “I married her.”

  Margaret felt fatalistically as if she had known it all along. This was what Constance had not told her. “So it was you who made Constance so unhappy,” she murmured.

  The caught breath of the young highwayman came as no surprise. He reined up so suddenly that Gibb nearly plowed into him from the rear.

  “Who are you?” he asked thickly, and snatched away her mask.

  A beautiful face, scarred across the cheekbones, considered him. “I am Margaret Archer.”

  “Of Tattersall House, Devon,” he murmured.

  “I see you have heard of me.”

  “So it was to you Constance fled the day she left me!” He looked down fiercely into her face. “Where is she now?”

  Margaret considered him. She had all the courage in the world. It would not have daunted her in the least to have refused him this information. But now she remembered how dejected Constance had often seemed that winter in Devon, how she had secretly wondered if the girl had not fallen in love in York. So she had been married to this young highwayman! Constance had kept her secret well. Margaret, who kept so many secrets, could admire that. She considered him soberly. “I think you broke her heart, Johnny.”

  “Dev,” he corrected her. “Only Constance and Gibb here know my real name. On the road I’m Johnny.”

  “Dev,” she said, trying out the name.

  Of a sudden she bethought her of her exhortations to her brother to get Constance married to Tony Warburton. Suppose he was trying to make it happen? What terrible pressure might be brought on Constance to wed? And what of Tony? Was she forcing them both into a bigamous marriage by nagging at Clifford? Worry clouded her features. What of Tony, who might find his life smashed again?

  It occurred to Margaret that she was creating a hell on earth for those she loved best.

  “Dev,” she said earnestly. “I care not what you have done, nor what you yet may do. But I am confident of one thing—Constance loves you. And great pressure is being put on her to marry, for she has told no one about you. When you have left me in Lincoln, get you quickly to Somerset. You will find her living at Axeleigh Hall near Bridgwater at the home of my brother, Clifford Archer, who calls her his ward.”

  “She would not care to see me,” said Dev bitterly.

  “You are wrong. She drooped all winter in Dartmoor and showed no interest in anything. Now I know it was because of you.”

  From the depths of him, Dev wanted to believe every word she said. He wanted to imagine Constance grieving for him, waiting for him, wanting him back.

  “It’s too late,” he said, and took the lady to Lincoln.

  But he tarried in Lincoln only for the night. As Margaret had known he would, he was mounted next day on a fresh horse and he told Gibb, who shook his head at this dangerous nonsense, that he was bound for Somerset.

  PART ONE

  Midnight Silk

  Now he has met her once again, who so had changed his life.

  Abandoned highwayman was he, who took her then to wife!

  Wide flung in welcome are her arms, her eyes implore...

  To stay would be to love her less, to leave to love her more!

  Axeleigh Hall, Somerset,

  May 1685

  Chapter 29

  Spring had spread its glory over the Valley of the Axe. Apple blossoms that had earlier festooned the orchards had dropped their petals, little rivulets burbled down to the river, and the meadows were thick and soft and brilliant with wild flowers. Birds caroled into the clean pure air, and the shadowy fastnesses of the Mendip Hills, with their steep sides and spectacular limestone gorges, rose regally as a backdrop to the emerald countryside that edged the silver river.

  The blackmailer had proved a drain on the Squire’s supply of cash and the Squire was gone to Bristol to make a deal to sell a shipment of cheeses, big as millstones, for which the area around the Cheddar Gorge was famous. He would be gone for several days.

  That left Pamela in charge and she had been up late, checking the door locks and the snuffing of candles. Finally deciding to undress, she was down to her chemise when she heard a piercing shriek from downstairs and dashed down in her satin mules without even donning a robe. She found a little scullery maid trembling as she stared at the kitchen window.

  “There was a face there,” the girl gabbled. “Looking in at me, it were!”

  Pamela did not wait. She seized a pistol from the library—after all, Axeleigh had been left in her care—and went outside to investigate.

  Her light satin mules were irrevocably stained by dew as she walked across the grass. Suddenly a horse neighed nearby and a mounted figure flashed by her. Forgetful that she was hardly dressed for riding, Pamela dashed to the pasture where in this delightful weather the horses were spending the night. She whistled for Angel and leaped aboard the pretty mare. Riding astride, she thundered off through the gates and down the road to Huntlands in pursuit of the prowler.

  Around her the world was silvered by moonlight and Pamela got a fairly clear glimpse of the man she was following as he turned a bend in the road. She could see that he wore a countryman’s tall hat. But that was no plow horse he was riding! Although he had a head start, fleet-footed Angel would have been able to catch up with most horses, but she could hear his hoofbeats steadily pulling away from her.

  No matter, she knew these roads! There was a shortcut through a break in the hedge that she and Tom often took. She and Angel dived through and when they came out on the road again the hoofbeats were closer. Then they seemed to disappear. Pamela slowed, walking Angel as she listened.

  But the slapping branches of the hedge had taken their toll. A twig had caught in the satin riband that held up her chemise. Unnoticed, it was coming undone and the whole garment was threatening at any moment to cascade down over her slender shoulders.

  To her right a twig snapped and she came instantly alert. Perhaps the prowler was attempting to ambush her! Her hand tightened on the pistol, but the sound stopped. Some little night animal must have made that sound—perhaps a fox or ferret out hunting, scurrying home to its den at the sound of her horse’s hooves.

  What came next happened too swiftly for her to recount accurately.

  There was a break in the hedgerow on her right and of a sudden a horse and rider plunged from it. Pamela brought up her pistol but a determined gauntlet-gloved hand seized her wrist and swung the barrel away from him. A strong arm encircled her waist and she found herself lifted in a single swoop from the saddle and crushed against a hard masculine chest. A face she could not see because it was shadowed by a wide-brimmed dark hat was suddenly thrust against her own and a pair of warm lips pressed down upon her sputtering mouth an impudent kiss.

  Against her will she found herself yielding to that kiss, found her resilient female body instinctively fitting itself to the contours of a deep chest that was warm and delightful against her own. Soft pulsing sensations were stealing through her body and her eyelids fluttered shut of their own volition. There was a gentle pounding in her breast, a fevered feeling, that came no doubt, she was to tell herself la
ter, from her blood being stirred up at being attacked on this country lane!

  She was limp and breathless when he let her go, the gun forgotten in her grasp. Then her eyes flew open and she saw him peering down at her.

  And realized that she was staring up into Tom Thornton’s amazed face.

  Pamela drew back with an angry gasp. To think that Tom would waylay her, pounce upon her like that! And even as she drew back, her chemise riband, which had been working its way through the eyelets as she rode, responded to that last convulsive motion by falling free, and the soft white lawn material, edged with delicate point lace, slid down across her bosom, glided below it, and bared her firm rounded young breasts to Tom’s startled view.

  He blinked at so rousing a sight and would have enthusiastically kissed her again but that she drew back a trembling arm and her hand cracked like a sharp report across his face.

  “How dare you look at me?” she cried in a passion, snatching at her errant chemise and pulling it up to cover her breasts.

  Tom was used to the violent outbursts of his lovely lady—and he felt there was some justice to the blow. Before she could strike him again, he seized her other wrist, laughing. “I knew not who you were,” he protested mildly. “I thought I was being pursued down the road and I reined up in the hedge. When I saw in the moonlight a lady on a white horse, clad in a thin chemise, I but thought to pay her some tribute!”

  “Ohhh!” In fury Pamela writhed in his arms and the gun she had forgotten she still held went off with a deafening roar.

  Instantly, she heard quite nearby the clatter of hooves. And with that sound, her purpose in this mad chase by moonlight was recalled to her.

  “After him, Tom!” she shouted. “Don’t let him get away!”

  She would have broken free and remounted Angel, who reared up in the road at all this excitement, but that Tom, who kept his grip on her, seemed suddenly to have trouble with Satan. The big black horse reared up, nearly toppling them both off and losing Tom his hat, and when they finally got things sorted out again and the horses quieted, there was but the faintest clip-clop in the distance and it was hard to tell from which direction.

  “You were saying something?” Tom had reached over and seized Angel’s reins—as if she could not control her own horse! She was hard put not to slap his hand away.

  “I was saying you’ve lost me my prowler that I pursued almost to your gates!” cried Pamela wrathfully. “What’s the matter with that mount of yours? His manners are terrible!”

  “Ah, that’s Satan for you—unpredictable. Here, you can’t ride about the country in your underwear, Pam. Take my coat.”

  “ ’Twill hardly hide the fact that I’m wearing my chemise,” Pamela pointed out, gazing down at her bare legs. “Indeed, wearing a man’s coat will call attention to the fact!”

  “You’re right,” said Tom instantly. “Come along with me and we’ll get you something to wear.”

  Pamela might have protested, but Tom—more masterful than ever—had a firm grip on Angel’s bridle, a strong arm around her waist, and was escorting both of them firmly through the gates of Huntlands and up the drive.

  She hoped sincerely that none of the servants had heard the shot and would be up to view her dishabille. Being half-dressed had seemed of no importance as she swung onto her horse to pursue the intruder but now she felt rather foolish being escorted along with a big smoking pistol dangling from her fingers and a chemise that had to be tightly clutched for with every motion it threatened to bare her firm young breasts to the world again.

  Luckily for her reputation, there was no one about. The master of Huntlands came and went at all hours, she was reminded. And even if the distant report of a pistol had caused someone to peer out of the windows, it was probably nothing unusual to see him come riding in escorting some chance-met lady. The thought made her frown darkly.

  Tom brought her into the great hall, set her down upon a cushioned chair before the huge fireplace, cold and empty on this warm May night, and threw his coat over her in case any of the servants should wander in. Pamela drew up her bare legs under it and waited. The moonlight coming in through the big windows made the room a magic place—but not so magical that Pamela was not deciding busily how she would redecorate the house when she became its mistress. She had not yet reached a decision on the draperies, whether they should be peach or gold, when Tom strode back, carrying a woman’s light flowered calico dress over his arm.

  “Here, this should be a near fit.” He tossed it to her.

  Pamela regarded the flowered dress suspiciously. “I thought this was a bachelor’s establishment!”

  Tom shrugged, but his blue eyes sparkled.

  Pamela shrugged off the coat which had been spread over her like a coverlet and stood up, holding the dress to her to measure its size.

  “Why—I know this dress!” she cried in sudden indignation. “It’s the dress Dorothea Hawley wore to the picnic on Thursday when she was supposed to have fallen in the river and gotten drenched and you said you’d take her home!” She grasped her chemise to her and waved the dress at him. “How do you explain how it got here?”

  Tom looked pained. “It will fit you—I think.”

  “It will not!” exploded Pamela. “Dorothea Hawley’s much flatter and her waist is far thicker!”

  Tom grinned and left her to dress alone. Muttering, Pamela rethreaded her chemise riband and slipped the offending dress over her head. True to her prediction, it was tight about the bust and hung loosely around her waist, the light fabric fluttering in the breeze that came in from an open casement. Her crystal blue eyes were snapping when Tom returned.

  “I’ll return the dress to Dorothea,” she said sweetly. “So you won’t have to.”

  His dark gold brows elevated. “No need to do that,” he told her. “It was so wet, we came by here so she could take it off and change into something dryer-she’s very susceptible to colds, you know, can’t stand a draft.”

  Pamela sniffed. “And I suppose she went home naked?”

  Tom sighed. “She borrowed a kirtle and blouse from one of the servants and she’s sending the kirtle and blouse back tomorrow and having this dress picked up.” He grinned at her. “Shall I send her word you arrived in your chemise and were glad of the chance to wear her dress home?”

  Pamela gave him a quelling look. “That won’t be necessary,” she said stiffly. “You can just say you’ve already sent it back and I will tell her that it was delivered to me by mistake. The Hawleys are giving a party tomorrow night. I’ll deliver it to her there.”

  “Resourceful, aren’t you?” grinned Tom. But somehow it pleased him that Pamela should want to make sure that he didn’t return the dress to Dorothea personally.

  It was the first time he had been appreciative at all of her jealousy of him, which was apparent to all who knew them. He guessed it was because she had looked such a lovely sprite out there astride the white horse with her clothes falling off in the moonlight. So different from her usual high-necked sumptuous gowns that encased her in splendor but kept you from seeing that there was a real girl underneath it all.

  Tonight it had been abruptly borne in on him that she was a woman grown—and a desirable one. She seemed a young peach tree in first blossom, and he had felt a sudden overwhelming desire to touch her petals—to trail his fingers through the silkiness of her hair, to trace patterns on the whiteness of her skin. His senses heated up as he remembered the deliciously yielding flesh of her slim young body. The touch of her lips had been wondrously soft, her body had smelled faintly of roses, and her hair had moved against his cheek like finest silk. It was hard to realize that nymph in the moonlight was the tomboy who only yesterday, it seemed, he had snowballed and taken fences with and taught archery and bowls.

  This wild creature met by moonlight with her long golden hair floating out like a skein of silk in the wind and her light chemise riding up around her dainty thighs, this lissome silken body divorced from the
yards of embroidered damasks and stiff brocades of which she was so fond, was another Pamela. Not the tomboy companion of his boyhood, not the flushed rather comical little girl who had a “schoolgirl crush” on him over which the county tittered. This dazzling being with her flashing crystal blue eyes and her skin the texture of rose petals, this brave and lovely girl who would, half-dressed and alone, recklessly pursue an intruder through the night down the dark roads of Somerset—and then for a moment melt in his arms more seductively than any girl ever had—was a new and wondrous Pamela.

  And Tom, who had been seriously considering single-minded young Dorothea Hawley, now reconsidered.

  He was seeing dainty Pamela in an entirely new light.

  “Pam,” he said in a deeper voice than she had ever heard him use. He bent over her, smiling down at her in her ill-fitting dress. His fingers toyed with her fair hair while a finger of his other hand lifted up her chin. “You’ve grown up to be a beauty, you know,” he told her caressingly.

  A lifetime she had waited for him to say those words. Pamela’s heart was thumping and she was unable to speak. She could have kissed the prowler who had brought Tom to his senses at last!

  “Very lovely,” he said, and bent to kiss her.

  It was a long exploring kiss of great tenderness and it brought her every sense alive—indeed it brought alive senses she had not known she possessed. She relaxed in his arms and leaned against him languorously.

  His questing fingers slid down her throat, feeling it throb, lightly testing the texture of the skin. On down they slid over the pearly expanse of her bosom in Dorothea Hawley’s low-cut, tight-bodiced dress. Those fingers were nearing her nipples....

  Impudent! She slapped his hand away—but it was a playful slap.

  He laughed. “Funny,” he said. “I never really thought of you as a girl before.”