Amy chewed at her lower lip and apprehensively stared at him as if not quite comprehending.
Was she truly so innocent? Or was this an act by an actress unparalleled in performance?
Certainly Miss Victorine, the perennial spinster, continued work as if undaunted, picking up her threads, stringing her tiny beads.
“Like…torture?” As if he were an odd, mysterious creature, Amy watched him from the corners of her eyes as she made her chess move.
“Some might call it torture.” He laughed, a short, rough outburst. Yes, sitting here indulging in fantasies about an untutored, criminally minded female was certainly torture. “But you were telling me how I would be set free.”
“Oh.” Amy straightened. “You’ll have no problem getting free and back where you belong. Your home is only across the channel.”
“So I am on Summerwind.” As the day had dragged on, he’d started to wonder. It was impossible to tell through the high windows, and this witch could have put him in any cellar anywhere and lied out of spite.
He moved his pawn.
“That you are.” Amy moved her bishop. “The key to the manacle has already been placed in a drawer in your house. After we’re away, we’ll send a note to your uncle telling him where, and you’ll be free as soon as he gets over here with it.”
He pretended to scrutinize the board while surreptitiously studying her.
She wore most the spectacularly dreadful clothes he’d ever had the misfortune to view. He’d seen two gowns, which he suspected had originally been Miss Victorine’s and remade to fit Amy’s slender figure. The material had been turned by a seamstress with an excellent hand, yet the style was still old-fashioned to the extreme, and the colors had faded from blue to gray and from pink to white. The cloth drooped dispiritedly over petticoats that he supposed must be wool, or her stockings were, for he had twice caught Amy scratching the back of her leg with one lifted foot, and occasionally she shifted uncomfortably in her chair.
He should have been happy to know she wore a sort of hair shirt. Instead the thought of her wool petticoat led him to musings about what else she wore, which led to speculation that a woman so unfeminine would refuse to wear a corset, which led to the knowledge that beneath the petticoat she probably wore nothing at all, which led to the fact that while his mind scorned her for her surely masculine determination to right what she perceived as a wrong, his body recognized that she was, indeed, a female.
“Well?” Amy tapped her foot.
He shoved his queen into the path of Amy’s oncoming piece.
“That was an excessively stupid move, my lord.” Amy’s displeasure was palpable. “Either you’re a mediocre player or you’re being gentlemanly and letting me win the game, and neither seems likely. Of what are you thinking?”
He was thinking very hard that if she was his he would clothe her in the finest silks and linens to protect that delicate skin…and that led back to vivid fantasies and such discomfort that he desperately longed for a wild ride across the island or a grand drinking spree with his friends or even a simple walk in the sun.
During the two months he’d been on his estate waiting for his leg to heal, he had suffered incredible boredom. He hadn’t realized how lucky he was to eat well, to exercise as he wished and, most of all, to see the sun, the trees, the horizon. He was almost insane with the desire to be free—and of course for the scornful, contrary, righteous Amy.
When he was free, he would forget about her in another woman’s arms…or perhaps he would find Amy and show her what happened to a female who dared to defy the marquess of Northcliff.
He tapped his fingers together and smiled.
He stripped off her ugly gown and cupped her breasts with his hands, examining the shape and color of her nipples. They were as soft and light as a peach…no, they were brown and puckered with desire for him…
“My lord, you look half asleep.” Miss Victorine put her beading down on the table. “Shall we leave you?”
“Sleep at this hour? Absurd. It can’t yet be nine o’clock!” In London, he had spent many nights carousing until the dawn.
“That may be true for you, but I am an old woman and need my sleep.” Miss Victorine stood.
He stood also, a gesture of respect he found he didn’t regret.
“I’ll go with you.” Amy hurried to Miss Victorine’s side. “We’ll leave Lord Northcliff the candle. He can read.”
He glanced at the small pile of old books they’d brought him. He was familiar with all of them.
“No, no. I’ll be fine and our guest should not be left alone. You two children stay here and finish your game.” Without apparent fear, Miss Victorine came close and hugged him.
Amy lunged toward them, then when he returned Miss Victorine’s embrace, she halted. She moved to the cabinet that housed her pistol, placed her hand on the drawer, and stared at him meaningfully.
He could scarcely contain his annoyance. He had learned his lesson this morning. Miss Victorine was fragile. He would never hurt her again.
Cupping her hands around his cheeks, she looked into his eyes. “It has been so good to have you as my guest again. Do come back soon…” She cast a guilty glance at Amy. “Oh, dear. I forgot. I won’t be here, but I wish you won’t be such a stranger to Summerwind. The village and the farms would be glad of a visit from their liege lord.”
Again he glanced at Amy. He saw exactly the sneer he expected. He knew her opinion of him. Bored, indolent, without honor or scruples—
“I’ll do that, Miss Victorine.” Leaning down, he brushed a kiss across her sagging cheek.
“Dear boy.” Miss Victorine’s voice quivered. “I have missed you.” With a last hug, she took the lamp and departed.
The darkness hugged the small light of the candle, yet still he couldn’t escape Amy’s accusing stare. “Liege lord, indeed. You don’t know how to be a liege lord.”
“I am the marquess of Northcliff. We have been the liege lords of this area for five hundred years. My father passed down the knowledge necessary to be Northcliff.” Yet he’d neglected his obligations, and her scorn stung. So he asked cruelly, “What did your father teach you? Or do you even know who he is?”
She advanced on him so fast, he thought for a moment he could actually get his hands on her. But she stopped a few, vital inches short. “My father told me to be true to myself, and do the right thing. He showed me the meaning of duty and sacrifice. I learned the lessons my father taught me. It’s too bad you didn’t do the same.”
My God! She whipped him with her words, showed not an ounce of the respect due his position! “Is it better to be a gentlewoman who has fallen on bad times and allowed the bitterness of labor to poison you?”
“Is that your new theory about me?” She snorted. “I wonder what other nonsense you’ll concoct to explain your imprisonment here?”
“There are a hundred things that could have made you who you are, but one thing remains inviolate. You are a ridiculous girl.” He used a disdainful tone he hoped made clear he wished to call her other, less elegant invectives.
“Life is a ridiculous exercise performed by the bored, the hungry and the desperate. And I’m stuck with you.” She glanced around. “I can’t go upstairs yet. You’re a dreadful chess player.”
Stung, he replied, “Actually, I’m one of London’s best.” When I’m not playing against a female. A female that makes my blood spring to the surface and hunger swim right beneath the skin.
“London is a city of fools, then.” Her gaze landed on Miss Victorine’s handwork. “Beading would keep you entertained.”
“No…it…wouldn’t.” He spoke through his teeth.
Picking up the small, complex piece, she shook it at him. “Come on, my lord. Think how satisfied you’d be to show that I’m wrong about anything.”
“I am not a woman.” But she was. He loved the way she wrapped her shawl over her bosom as if shielding herself from his gaze would protect her from his
lust. Her action was futile and showed little experience with men—or perhaps too much.
“No, you’re one of the bored.”
She was damned right about that. He knew she was baiting him. He knew he shouldn’t succumb to her gibes. Yet he was bored. And lustful. And desperate. “All right.” He made his decision briskly. “Show me.”
Amy looked startled, then suspicious.
“What?” He lifted spuriously innocent brows. “You’ve convinced me.”
“You’re being too pleasant.”
“Some people actually call me a charming fellow.”
“Debutantes.” She imbued the word with scorn. “Am I right?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t believe them,” she advised. “They’re flattering you. They’re after your ring on their finger.”
That was what he believed, too, but she believed it in a different way. A disparaging way. One that plainly told him she couldn’t imagine a moment when he was ever charming.
And he had the uncomfortable thought. Perhaps he was never charming. Certainly his father had never been charming.
Which was better than being like his mother: enchanting, inconsequential, fickle.
His mouth hardened. “Never mind. Go upstairs. I’m not a child. I don’t need for you to entertain me.”
“Fine.” She stuffed the beadwork into her pocket. “I’m sure you’re incapable of concentrating long enough to learn, anyway.”
He took the two steps to his cot, the bloody chain rattling as he moved. He flung himself down. “Yes, because I am such an negligible, irresponsible, laughable fellow.”
She hesitated, clearly not comprehending his mood.
“Take the candle.” He dismissed her with a flick of his fingers.
With a flounce, she left him staring into the dark.
The next day, Pom stood in the sunny, bustling square in the village of Settersway on the first really fine day of spring. Unlike these mainland folk with their fine, colorful booths, Pom sold his fish out of a basket. He was a common sight here. He sold his fish every week at market and he knew the noise, the smells, the people…the pole by the well where scraps of paper flapped in the breeze. If a man had a mule for sale, there he placed the announcement. When the navy wanted to capture a deserter, there they placed the reward information. Sarrie Proctor had even advertised for a husband on that pole, and got herself a hard-working one, too. And the courting youth sometimes sealed their love letters and placed them on the pole for their sweethearts to find.
It was one such sealed letter that held Pom’s attention. He’d seen a fine fellow step up to the pole, place the letter on a rusty nail, and leave. Pom was tall, taller than anyone else in the square, and he had spent an hour scanning the square, looking for suspicious men lingering in the shadows. Men who would capture the one who grabbed that letter and take him away.
He saw no one.
At last, satisfied that Mr. Harrison Edmondson hadn’t sent a spy, Pom nodded to Vicar Smith.
Vicar Smith finished his conversation with Mrs. Fremont and strolled toward the center of the square. Toward the pole. He lingered, the wisps of his white hair ruffled by the wind, appearing to examine the booths with their wares, and at the moment when the ever-shifting crowd was at its height, he plunged into the center. For a tense moment, Pom lost sight of him. Then he emerged, walked to Mrs. Showater’s booth hung with loaves of bread, and purchased a sweet bun. He headed for the booth selling the ale, ignoring the Gypsy fortune-teller as he passed.
Only Pom saw the letter transfer from Vicar Smith to his own Mertle, dressed up in bright rags with her skin dyed with walnut juice to a toasty brown.
She finished reading the palm of the giggling girl before her, no doubt promising wealth and a handsome husband. Standing, she tucked her coins in her purse, checked to make sure her kerchief and her scarves covered her blond curls, and started toward Pom. She winked at all the men she passed, read a few palms as they were thrust before her, and when she drew close to him she looked him over from head to toe. “Ye’re a big one.” She swayed her hips enticingly. “Does the rest o’ ye match yer height?”
The women around them laughed, and Pom didn’t have to pretend to be unnerved. He hated being the center of attention.
Mertle knew it, too, and grinned.
At the sight, Pom jumped.
Somehow, she’d blacked out one of her teeth. His wife was enjoying herself far too much.
Taking his hand, she cupped it in her own. She frowned, muttered, leaned in so that her scarves fell forward—and she placed the folded letter in his palm. She pressed his fingers over it and drew back. To the crowd that had gathered, she announced, “He’s married t’ a blond witch who’ll take my eyes out if I try a love spell on him.”
One of the onlookers gasped. “How did she know that?”
“My destiny lies elsewhere,” Mertle declared.
“So it does,” Pom said. “Go on then and find it.”
With another grin, Mertle walked from the square.
Vicar Smith had disappeared, too, but Pom made himself wait until he’d sold all his fish before he left. Then he hurried to the harbor to his boat, and as he untied it from its moorings, the vicar and his wife, now dressed in her usual garb, leaped in.
“Gents, did ye see anything?” Mertle asked.
“No one,” Vicar Smith said.
“No one.” Pom put his shoulders to the oars and took them out of the harbor.
“So Mr. Edmondson took Miss Rosabel’s threats seriously. That’s good.” Vicar Smith coiled the rope on the bottom of the boat.
Pom shrugged.
“What’s the matter?” Mertle rubbed his arm. “Everything went wonderfully well.”
“Too wonderfully well.” Pom scanned the horizon. “I’ve met Mr. Harrison Edmondson. A slimier, more sneaky coot I’ve never met.”
“What are you saying?” Mertle scanned the horizon, too.
“That I don’t like this,” Pom said. “It was too easy.”
Chapter 9
“We’ve got it! Miss Victorine, we’ve got it!” It was late afternoon when Amy ran into the cottage, the letter from Harrison Edmondson clutched tightly in her hand.
Pom followed at a slower pace.
Miss Victorine hurried out of the kitchen, an apron draped over her gown, her brown eyes sparkling, Coal on her heels. “Thank heavens! Now we can release His Lordship.”
“Yes, more’s the shame,” Amy retorted, but she could scarcely contain her jubilation.
On hearing Amy’s sentiment, Miss Victorine looked anxious. “Dear child, you can’t say that you think it is right to imprison a young, healthy lord.”
“It’s done him good.” Amy broke the seal.
“How can you say that?” Miss Victorine asked.
Amy scanned the words on the page. “He’s, um, learning…” Her words petered out. “…patience.”
“What’s the matter, dear?” Miss Victorine’s voice quivered.
Amy looked up. Miss Victorine and Pom were staring at her. She didn’t know what to say. How to tell them.
“Might as well just speak it, miss.” Pom stood there, stalwart as always but ill-able to withstand further financial hardship.
Miss Victorine was bent, fragile, still bruised from her tumble with Lord Northcliff.
Coal sat balanced on his rear, licking his stomach.
And Amy had dragged them into this.
“Mr. Harrison Edmondson declares he won’t pay the ransom. He says…he says he’s sorry, but we’ll have to kill Lord Northcliff.”
“I don’t understand it. He must not believe we’ll really kill him.” Amy sat at the kitchen table and cradled her aching forehead in her palms.
Miss Victorine’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “Well…we won’t.”
“But he doesn’t know that!” Amy wanted to be indignant. Instead she was flabbergasted. “He doesn’t know we’re two women with a desperate plan. As far as he’
s concerned, we’re hardened criminals. We’re murderers. Even if he pays the ransom, we could still kill Lord Northcliff!”
“We could never kill anyone.”
“I don’t know about that. As obnoxious as Lord Northcliff is…” At Miss Victorine’s gasp, Amy relented. “All right, we couldn’t kill him, either.” Although when he lolled on the bed like some Roman god or snapped at her as if she were some village trull, she really thought murder seemed too good for him. “But Harrison Edmondson doesn’t know that!”
“So ye keep saying.” Pom stood at the door, his arms crossed over his massive chest. “Yet Mr. Edmondson is ever a treacherous swine. Perhaps he thinks ye’ll kill his nephew and doesn’t care.”
Amy lifted her head and stared at Pom. The whole world had gone crazy, and Pom with it.
“Pom, what a dreadful thing to say!” Miss Victorine sounded shocked. “I do not like Harrison, either, but he’s not a murderer.”
“No, Miss Victorine. In that case, he would not be the murderer,” Pom pointed out stoically. “If that’s not the case, why wouldn’t he send the payment?”
“We asked for too much.” Miss Victorine thought about that, then nodded as if that satisfied her. “Poor man, he must be devastated at the thought of his nephew being put to death for lack of a few pounds.”
“But he’s rich! His factory is making thousands of yards of beaded lace!” Amy slapped the table. “With your design!”
“Dear, you don’t understand finance,” Miss Victorine said. “When an operation starts, it takes capital to pay for the machines and the building. That’s probably where Harrison’s money has gone.”
“How do you know that?” Amy asked.
“My family hasn’t always been impoverished.” Miss Victorine nodded wisely.
“Neither has mine,” Amy said, “but we’ve never had to handle our own money.”
“You had a steward?” Miss Victorine’s eyes lit up as they always did when she considered the romance of Amy’s past. “Well, of course you did. And a lord chamberlain and a prime minister—”
From the cellar, a man’s roar sounded. “Amy, I can hear you talking. If you’re back, you can let me go!”
The Barefoot Princess Page 8
