Lady Vixen (The Reckless Brides, Book 3)

by Shirlee Busbee

  Christopher’s eyes were shuttered and his smile vanished. “Watch it, Nick,” he warned. “I haven’t set you up as my judge. I am, what I am—for whatever reasons, and they don’t concern you. All that concerns you is the tale that we’re going to present. And present it, we will!”

  Nicole bit back angry words and jumping to her feet, she jeered, “Intrigue seems to be one of your talents. I’m certain you’ll come up with a plausible tale—so tell me, why were we in the north? How have Mrs. Eggleston and I lived these past five years? And how did we have the great misfortune to come under your protection?”

  Angry now too, especially when it occurred to him that if her damned slut of a mother had kept her legs together he wouldn’t be in this ignoble position, Christopher stood up and snarled, “Misfortune indeed! You’re bloody lucky I don’t strangle you and throw you in the river. Don’t push me too far, Nick!”

  Having enraged him, Nicole irrationally wished that she hadn’t, and she said quickly, “You can’t expect me to accept meekly what you have done—and I think if our roles were reversed, you, too, would fight back.”

  Christopher grudgingly acknowledged the justice of her words, but he only shook his head.

  Christopher remained silent and Nicole said crossly, “Tell me the tale I’m to learn and let’s get this farce done with.”

  “Very well, you ran away with Mrs. Eggleston five years ago when she left England. You have been living these past years quietly in a small town in British Canada. Due to the fighting along the border, Mrs. Eggleston decided it would be safer to leave the area. She also felt that it was time you returned and claimed your estates. Unfortunately, your ship was sunk by an American privateer and you were taken to Charleston. I happened to be in Charleston myself, thinking of buying my own merchantman, when we accidentally met. Naturally”—and Christopher bowed mockingly in her direction—“learning of your plight, I undertook to look after you both. We traveled to New Orleans, where Mrs. Eggleston’s illness necessitated her remaining there. I deposited you at Thibodaux House and left right away again for New Orleans. I have now returned with a suitable lady’s maid and a few gowns to replace those you lost at sea. I will be leaving again in a few days to see to the remainder of your new wardrobe and to escort the fully recovered Mrs. Eggleston back here.” He gave Nicole a hard look to see how she was taking his story. But Nicole could, upon occasion, hide her emotions too, and she had kept her face stony and unrevealing throughout Christopher’s discourse. He ignored her lack of animation and continued, “Soon I’ll see about arranging passage for us to London. And,” he added provocatively, “if you do as I say and give me no difficulty, I shall free Allen…within a reasonable time.”

  Christopher was rather pleased with his story. It hung together nicely. More importantly, there was going to be an ocean between them and the true facts—an ocean and a war going on. It would be almost impossible for anyone to disprove his tale—and who would want to? Mrs. Eggleston was a pattern card of respectability, and she had admitted to him that she had been too ashamed of her circumstances to let any of her friends in England know the truth. They believed she had left England, unable to bear it after the Colonel’s death, and had decided to live with distant relatives in Canada. A coincidence Christopher blessed fervently.

  With Mrs. Eggleston to lend credibility and himself returning as the wild, young rascal who had made a fortune in America, they should brush through the first uneasy meetings with few problems. The explanation of the past five years was solid; Mrs. Eggleston’s and Nick’s wish to return also could not be open to conjecture. His own providential appearance on the scene was stretching it a bit thin, but only to someone who was suspicious of his reasons for coming back to England.

  The Markhams would present a certain amount of difficulty if they were as determined to control Nick’s life and fortune as it appeared they were. But this time Nick would not be fighting them alone—she would have both himself and Mrs. Eggleston to stand in her favor, and he had the feeling that if his grandfather were still alive, old Simon Saxon would carry the battle right into the enemy camp.

  Once Nick’s claim was proven and she was safely in control of her own fortune, her usefulness was over. By that time, he hoped he would have gained whatever knowledge he could and would be leaving her behind. He realized uneasily that he felt saddened by the prospect, but he thrust it aside. She meant nothing to him—he had only grown used to her. And because he was angry at something he didn’t or wouldn’t understand, he snapped, “Do you think you can remember what I’ve said? You’re quick enough, you shouldn’t have any trouble.”

  Nicole nodded, a lump of cold misery in her chest. Controlling herself with an effort, she asked expressionlessly, “Is that all? May I go to my room now?”

  Angry and not certain why, Christopher snarled, “Yes, by God! Get out of my sight!”

  Nicole tore out of the library and running onto the veranda, she raced up the stairs to her room on the second floor…her new room. She met Galena in the wide hallway, who, with a bland face, showed her the room she was now to occupy.

  Not understanding herself, or why instead of mad elation there was only an empty feeling in her stomach, she ignored the trunks and packages that were scattered about the room, and with something approaching a sob threw herself down on the green silk-draped bed.

  Of course, it wasn’t a sob—Nicole never cried, but she was dangerously near to it. Biting her lip to stop its quiver, she told herself she should be the most delighted girl in the world. Allen would be free…eventually. No longer would she have to endure Saber’s, no, Christopher’s lovemaking, and soon he would be taking her home to England, returning her to her rightful place and ousting the Markhams as she had always planned. Dismally she wondered why it mattered not one jot to her—why all she really wanted to do was to go on crossing swords with Sa—Christopher, fighting with him and then losing herself in his arms.

  Her thoughts were not to be borne. Telling herself that it was the shock, the suddenness of having all her dreams come true that was responsible for this feeling of depression, she wrenched her mind away from the painful subject and forced herself to concentrate on all the lovely things Christopher had brought back with him.

  She rang for Galena. And within a few minutes, they began to unpack the trunks and packages. Christopher had said he had brought just a few clothes, but seeing the half dozen or so gorgeous gowns—one in Pomona green of gossamer satin; the dainty silk slippers; a delightfully curled silk bonnet; three simply enchanting night rails of the finest percale with matching robes delicately embroidered with roses; a fashionable riding habit of bright green cloth ornamented with black braid à la militaire-, a small riding hat of black beaver with gold cordon and tassels and a long green ostrich feather; two pairs of black half boots, one pair laced and fringed with green; a lace tippet à la Duchess d’Agoulême, edged with a border of Vandyke lace; and an amber silk cape—Nicole couldn’t possibly see how she would ever need more.

  For a young woman whose entire wardrobe for years had consisted only of the boy’s clothes on her back, it seemed like an incredible wardrobe, and the knowledge that there would be more took her breath away.

  One small trunk contained all the little odds and ends that most women so love and Nicole, despite herself, found that she was no different. With delight, she lifted out delicate silk chemises, some spangled scarves, a matched set of combs, brushes and an oval hand mirror inlaid with mother of pearl, deliriously scented soaps and bath oils, as well as several crystal bottles of perfume.

  With childlike glee Nicole ran from one lovely object to the other, her hands caressing the beautiful gowns and scarves. With simple enjoyment, she slipped into a hastily prepared bath, liberally scented from one of the jars of bath oil, reveling in the soft, silken water. Afterward Galena helped her into one of the new night rails with its matching wrapper, and Nicole sat lost in thought before the small fire in her room as Galena brushed her w
avy locks.

  Staring into the leaping flames, Nicole came to several decisions. She wouldn’t think about Saber—or Christopher, as she would have to remember to call him. Somehow, though, she felt he would always be Saber to her, no matter what the future would bring. But from now on she would work hard to regain her manners and follow the dictates of polite society. Whatever he was up to, the fact remained that he was going to do just as she would have wished. The only fault she could find was that Allen would not be freed immediately. She frowned as she thought about Allen. Christopher, and firmly she called him that in her mind, Christopher had said he would release Allen—but dare she trust him? Yes, she decided after a great deal of thought. Christopher was a clever devil, but if he had said he would do something he would see it done. And he had stated outright that Allen would be set free. Unharmed? Her blood chilled. Christopher was capable of freeing Allen all right—right into the hands of the American military.

  Realizing that she should have questioned him more closely, she started to her feet, only to be brought up short by Galena’s admonition that she sit still. And of course, she could not confront him in such inappropriate dress. How quickly the rules of society overtook one, she thought cynically.

  She slept badly that night, tossing and turning, waking a half-dozen times only to fall back into a restless doze. Though she tried to convince herself that her uneasy sleep was because of the new room, deep down inside she knew it had nothing to do with that.

  Somewhere at the back of her consciousness had always been the thought that someday she would return to England and her home. How, when, or why hadn’t been important. Nicole wasn’t given to deep thinking, living for the most part on the surface of her emotions, but the abruptness with which this had happened made her, for the first time in her life, look inside at her deepest feelings. She didn’t like at all what she saw.

  Trying to ignore the pull of physical attraction between herself and Christopher was futile. It existed and she would have been a fool to pretend otherwise. Whether she liked it or not, part of her restlessness was due to the unpalatable knowledge that her body wanted his, and that she would have given a great deal still to be in that room that adjoined his, knowing that he would be coming to her bed whenever he chose. She was secretly appalled and ashamed, but she knew it was true.

  She wasn’t so sure of her emotions concerning the return to England. Did she really wish to go back? She thought not—not if it meant being parted from Christopher.

  Just a little frightened at where her thoughts were taking her, she twisted the bedclothes into such knots with her constant tossings that close to dawn she had to get out of bed to straighten them. Climbing back into the bed, she lay there giving up all pretense of sleep. She was caught in a trap of her own making—pride would not allow her to back down from her once fiercely desired wish to oust the Markhams. There was the further, lowering knowledge that even if she threw earlier dreams to the winds, Christopher was not likely to change his plans. He would be more than certain to question and wonder at her change of heart—wonder and perhaps guess at something she herself wasn’t even willing to name. In view of the night she had just spent, it was a moody and heavy-eyed young woman that greeted Miss Mauer in the morning.

  Miss Mauer looked precisely like what she was—an efficient lady’s maid—from the top of her graying dark locks, neatly combed and arranged in a bun behind her head, to the sturdy black slippers on her feet. She was not a large woman, nor a pretty one, but her snapping black eyes, a lively smile, and her quick, deft movements gave her a pleasing appearance. She had a soft voice; when she spoke, her French accent was noticeable.

  Having ascertained with a swift glance that the clothes had already been neatly hung in the large cherry-wood armoire near the corner of the room, she folded her hands and asked, “Would Mademoiselle care to dress?”

  Nicole, seated on her bed and viewing the day with an uneasy eye, looked at her with consideration. She would have liked to order the woman from the room but knowing it would only precipitate a scene with Christopher and that this situation was not of Mauer’s making, she said reluctantly, “I suppose I should.” Then in a burst of honesty that endeared her instantly to Miss Mauer, she admitted, “I’ve never had my very own maid before, you know, so you shall have to show me how to go on.”

  Nothing could have been more calculated to make Miss Mauer her slave. Used to spoiled women of fashion and aging beauties fighting desperately against the ravages of time, Nicole was a refreshing change. Once Nicole made up her mind to bow to the inevitable, everything was swiftly and agreeably arranged.

  It was, as it turned out, a pleasant morning. Nicole, at Mauer’s request, tried on first one gown then another. Speedily Mauer made the necessary notations. As soon as the fittings were over, Mauer set about altering one gown for Nicole to wear that day, promising, as she was a notable needlewoman, that the others would be ready in no time at all.

  An amber-bronze gown of serge with the new fashionable long sleeves and tiny buttons at the wrist was the dress selected to be altered first. It had the high waist that was once again in demand, and what would have been a shockingly low-cut bodice was filled with ecru-colored lace.

  While Miss Mauer plied her needle, the two exchanged pleasantries. On Nicole’s part, the exchange was guarded. She had to be careful of what she said and wished she had thought to question Christopher more closely on exactly what Miss Mauer had been told.

  She needn’t have worried about Mauer’s reaction to her careful replies. Mauer knew better than to inquire into her employer’s affairs, and if by chance she discovered something of a scandalous nature, her mouth was firmly sealed—no one would hire a chatterbox who divulged all she knew.

  The gown completed to her satisfaction, Mauer suggested that perhaps before dressing, they should see to Nicole’s hair.

  A little wary, Nicole asked, “What do you mean?”

  “Mademoiselle, you have beautiful hair, and such a dark, deep auburn, o la la, but perhaps it is a little, little long and ill-cut, n’est-ce pas?”

  Looking in the mirror at the burnished mass of dark fire that fell almost to the middle of her back, Nicole admitted cautiously, “It probably is a trifle long and I haven’t taken very good care of it.”

  Encouraged, Miss Mauer suggested, “Perhaps, if I were to trim a little off it would be easier to manage and to dress more fashionably?”

  A gleam of mischief in her eyes, Nicole readily agreed, feeling certain that Christopher would forbid it if he knew. In perfect accord, if not for the same reasons, they set about creating the “new” Nicole.

  Some two hours later it was a very fashionably dressed young lady who viewed herself in the long mirror. Her hair fell a little below her shoulders with a soft fringe across the forehead. Mauer had arranged it in ringlets on top of her head with one long curl coaxed to rest on her shoulder. The amber gown fit to perfection, and the color was a pleasing foil for her burnished dark hair. A spangled shawl draped across her shoulders and bronze silk slippers completed the picture. For a long time, Nicole stared at the tall, elegant creature before her. It seemed incredible that the fashionable young woman with the dark eyes and slender full-bosomed figure could be herself.

  With a funny catch in the region of her heart, she wondered if Christopher would find this “new” Nick more appealing than the old. Or would he continue to make half-savage, half-tender love to her one minute, and then snarl and snap the next.

  Chapter 7

  If Nicole had been thrown off balance by the events of yesterday, so had Christopher. He hadn’t expected the fierce surge of pleasure that had whipped through him at the sight of that slim figure in boy’s clothing, nor had he expected to feel any regret about their eventual parting. That he experienced both of those emotions left him torn between fury that any woman could arouse such feeling, and disgust, mingled with uneasiness, about the reasons for these very unnatural emotions.

  He was not ab
out to fall into the same snare he had years before—and certainly not with that slut Annabelle’s daughter. Venting some of his anger by slamming from the library and demanding that Sanderson see that a tray of liquors was prepared and sent to the gun room, he stalked down the hall. Some minutes later, sprawling on the worn leather couch and staring at the fire, he proceeded to swallow one glass of whiskey after another. It was something he seldom did, if ever, but just now he didn’t want to think about anything.

  He told himself that events were working out for the best, and any regret on his part was only because he hadn’t yet grown tired of Nicole’s body. She meant absolutely nothing to him. She was a pawn to be used—as was Mrs. Eggleston.

  Christopher was badly rattled. He thought himself a hard man, and he was. Yet since he had decided to give up all connections with Lafitte and privateering, the emotionless cloak with which he had clothed himself for so many years was showing a number of tears and rents.

  He could remind himself that his concern in New Orleans’s safety was purely selfish—he didn’t want his own interests harmed, did he? He could also excuse his behavior with Mrs. Eggleston. After all, he argued with himself, she had always been good to him. Besides, he would be using her for his own ends, wouldn’t he? If he was doing the proper thing by returning Nicole Ashford to her relatives in England, it was only because it served his purpose. Having blackened his character to his satisfaction and convinced himself that he was indeed the filthy beast that Nick called him, he proceeded to drink himself blind.

  He woke the next morning in a foul temper, but certain things had clarified themselves in his mind. He was not going to search and rack his brains to find reasons for why he was acting as he was‍‍—he was doing it because it suited him.

  Dressing hurriedly in a pair of comfortable buckskins and top boots, he arranged to spend the morning with his manager, Hans Bartel, going over the plantation account books and discussing the plans to be carried out in his absence.