by Joan Vincent
Rolling his eyes while trying to assume a dignified stance, Malcolm cleared his throat. “Mr. Broyal, I must insist you—”
“I insist you help me get into these clothes before your sister comes and takes them away,” Quentin interrupted.
“Well, really now,” Malcolm blustered, “you cannot expect me to act your valet.”
Quentin sat, threw back the covers, and edged his legs over the side of the bed. “Would you rather your sister help me?”
“But you are ...” The young man’s features darkened. “Do you mean Maddie has—” As he gazed at the man’s torso and saw the scars Malcolm’s alarm turned to admiration.
“Good lord, how did you get so cut up? Was that done by a sabre?” he questioned with boyish enthusiasm.
“Help me dress,” Quentin bit out. “My garments,” he nodded at the dresser. “Now.”
No less susceptible to the tone that had made many a young trooper quake, Malcolm did as he was told. He was forced to admire the stranger who remained silent when the young man’s clumsiness caused him pain.
When Quentin had gotten into his small clothes and breeches, Malcolm stepped back. He observed the perspiration on the other’s brow and that his fingers trembled as he tried to fasten the buttons on his breeches. “You do not look like you feel very well, Mr. Broyal.”
Those buttons secured, Quentin sagged against the bed. “My shirt. Then I will rest,” he cut off any objection.
Malcolm helped him into it, then reached down and swung the man’s legs up when he made to lie down. “Mr. Broyal, I have thought about our conversation last night. I cannot like it that Maddie has spent so much time alone with you no matter what either of you say. It—it isn’t done,” he stammered, then grew silent beneath the other’s grim gaze.
“Where is your father?” Quentin asked in the tone that had often elicited confidences from his troopers.
Rubbing his chin, Malcolm turned away. He swallowed hard at sight of his sister in the doorway.
Maddie motioned him to leave. When he hesitated, she added, “Henry awaits you in my—in Father’s office. He wants to go over some estate business.”
With an abrupt capitulating nod, the lad withdrew.
“I see you bullied Malcolm into helping you dress,” Maddie noted as she approached the bed.
“Why did you not let your brother answer my question?” Quentin asked. He sucked in his breath at the touch of her hands as she pulled up his untucked shirt. Contact with Maddie was exquisite pain and joy at the same time.
Maddie checked the bandage on the front wound. Then she prodded him to roll onto his side and did the same to the one on his back. “You are lucky you did not reopen your wounds.”
Maddie stared for a moment at the thick red line that marked his right side. She pulled the shirt back down and began to fasten the buttons like she had done so many times for her father.
“He went to take the waters at Tunbridge Wells,” she said, but refused to meet his gaze. The last button fastened, she straightened the shirt’s plaque and smoothed it down.
Quentin took hold of her lingering hand. “Tunbridge Wells?” he repeated. “Alone?”
“Of course he took servants,” Maddie said, unsettled by him and also by his strange almost knowing look. It was far too easy to forget her difficulties when gazing into those blue depths.
Quentin saw her inner struggle. He tightened his hold. “Where is your mother buried?”
“Mother,” she furrowed her brows. “Buried?”
“Yes. Where?” Quentin persisted.
“In the mausoleum Father built, in a vale not far from here.” Maddie drew her hand away. “I will try to get more substantial food for you this evening. It is difficult—”
“Because everyone believes it is for your father?”
Maddie stilled. She eyed him like he was a snake about to strike. “Of course not. I could not let my staff or my sisters know we harbour a free trader. They could unwittingly betray you.”
“Would it not be easier to turn me over to the authorities?”
“That would solve nothing,” Maddie snapped, her temper rising. “Only when you leave with no one ever knowing you were here will this particular part of my problem be solved.”
“I will remove my person as soon as I am able,” he offered, mentally noting she said part of my problem.
“Good.”
“It is the least I can do. Your brother will be very pleased.”
Maddie’s heart lurched at Quentin’s sudden smile. It made him look years younger and far too handsome for her good. “When do you think you will go?”
“Two days more should do,” he said watching her.
“Sunday, then,” she calculated.
“Sunday night. You would not want anyone to see me skulk away.”
“Sunday night,” Maddie repeated, wistful.
“Miss,” Maves’ quavering voice intruded. “Captain Medworth has called. He desires to speak with you.”
Quentin saw her hands clench, then watched as she willed herself to relax. He could almost see the mental calculation whirl through her mind. “Give me up if you must,” he offered.
“No, I would never do that,” Maddie said with betraying force. She looked at him for a long moment, then, in a swirl of petticoat and skirt, left.
* * *
“Captain Medworth,” Maddie greeted the officer who was surrounded by her sisters in the sitting room. “Please, do not stand.
“Ruth, get a tea tray from Corrie,” she ordered. “Helene, take Jessamine outside for a walk. The sunshine looks delightful.”
Jessamine ran to her side. “But, Maddie, we’ve hardly seen you since—”
She tousled her sister’s baby fine hair. “I shall be free when Captain Medworth leaves. Go on now.” She sat on the settee as they left. “I am sorry Aunt Prissy was not here—”
“Your sisters were quite adequate hostesses.” His smile faded. “You are very fond of them,” Medworth commented. When she nodded, he continued, “I heard that your brother has come home. Where is he?”
“Malcolm is with Mr. Lundin. He takes a great interest in the estate, which will one day be his.” Maddie bent an inquiring gaze on him. She found it difficult to conceal her quaking beneath his keen eyes. “Shall I get him?”
“No, he has only been home since yesterday so I doubt—”
“You are well informed, Captain.”
Medworth paused. “Did you know Mr. Lambert?”
“Yes, I do. I spoke with him in Hayward about five or so days ago. Why do you ask?”
“Was he a close friend?”
“What do you mean to imply, Captain? Mr. Lambert is a neighbour of long standing. There surely is nothing improper in speaking with him.”
“No, of course not,” Medworth soothed. “I just wanted to be sure that my news would not unduly shock you.”
Maddie’s patience snapped. “Do you always speak in riddles, sir?”
“Lambert’s body was found washed up on the shore this morning,” the captain answered. “He had been shot.” Despite her sudden pallor, he handed a folded paper to Maddie. “When we searched his home we discovered this note. Could you tell me what it concerns?”
Unfolding the paper she read. The location—Matthew Vincouer. Maddie handed it back. “I have no idea what it means. Mr. Lambert stopped me in the street. He said he wished to speak to father. I told him he must write a note. You know my father sees no one outside of the family except Mr. Balfor.”
“Did Lambert mention anything else? Anyone else?” the captain asked as he placed the note back in his jacket pocket.
“Not that I recall. You cannot believe Mr. Lambert’s death has anything to do with my family,” she protested.
“If by location he meant the tunnel, then yes, I do,” Medworth said. “I have also learned Mr. Lambert has been entertaining a guest for the past several weeks—a French émigré by the name of Jacques Porteur. Have you met him?”
>
“No, Mr. Lambert explained that his guest was a very private individual.” The little man the Dashwoods had teased unmercifully leaped to mind.
“I have met his servant. Do you believe they are involved with the free traders?” she asked. “How very unfortunate you haven’t been able to question any of the villains.”
“My thought exactly, Miss Vincouer,” the captain replied. “May I speak with your father for a few minutes on the morrow? I promise not to overtire him.”
Aware of his close scrutiny, Maddie spoke with forced calm. “I am not certain. He is somewhat better but so very weak. I will ask the doctor.”
“So shall I.” Captain Medworth stood just as Ruth returned with tea. “My apologies, ladies.” He bowed. “I must go but I will return on the morrow. Do enjoy your tea.”
* * *
Folkestone Early Friday Evening
The sun had been set an hour when Jenks made his way into the Johnny O, a pub frequented by the militia and excise men in Folkestone. He ordered a pint to celebrate his acquisition of the final articles requested by Broyal. The batman overheard the name Medworth and glanced around to locate the source. This accomplished, he sat at a nearby table with his back to the three Preventive men.
“'Twas a rum deal,” one commented. “You’re lucky you didn’t have a hole put through you like that Lambert fellow, Ross. How is your head?”
“’Tweren’t nothing—just a mess o’blood. I feared the Cap’n would be sore vexed with me for getting it all over his coat but he ne’er said a word.”
“Probably too distracted by the Vincouer chit,” the first man winked. “He went there as soon as he could once daylight came.” He drank while the other two exchanged smirks. “Tubs,” he said to the third man at the table, “do you think the sergeant is right that this Lambert fellow must have been in league with the smugglers and somehow crossed them?”
“What else makes any sense, Petey?” Ross butted in. “Besides, I overheard Sergeant and Cap’n Medworth. They said Lambert had been goin’ under the name Partridge too.”
“You don’t mean it!” Tubs exclaimed. Lowering his voice when the others hushed him, he continued, “What did they cog’tate about Lambert?”
“Well,” Ross leaned closer, “I heard one of the maids tell ‘em he’s been acting right strange—goin’ out all night and such. There’s this French fellow stayin’ with him—” He winced when a heavy hand clamped onto his shoulder.
“You men need to get back to the barracks,” Lieutenant Topken ordered. “Take care you don’t bandy about any more news,” he warned.
Jenks smiled with satisfaction and finished his ale. This information should please the major. Now, he thought, if the chambermaid at the inn put the valise where I told her, the rest of the evening should be easier than polishing me rifle.
* * *
Hart Cottage Friday Evening
Maddie set the bundle of food on the night table and then drew the bed curtain at the foot of the bed shut with an irritated jerk. “Do not draw it back again. It shields you from any who open the door.”
“And them from me. But good eve to you, Miss Vincouer,” Quentin drawled. He lounged at his ease atop the bedcovers.
Forcing her eyes from the crisp curl of hair revealed by open buttons at the top of his shirt, Maddie frowned. She twitched the towel off the roast beef, thick slices of fresh baked bread, and cold potatoes. “Until you leave on the morrow, Mr. Broyal, do as I say.”
He snapped a sharp salute. “Aye, sir.”
He does that just like Jamey when he meant to tease me, Maddie thought. Tears pricked her eyes. She blinked them back and busied herself rearranging the food.
“Maddie.”
“I have not given you leave to ... ” Her eyes met his. She forgot the admonition. Her resistance melted beneath his gaze. She allowed him to draw her to sit beside him upon the bed. Not for the first time Maddie wished him anything but a free trader.
He brushed the single tear on her cheek away with a light touch. “What has upset you?”
“’Tis foolish.” She stared at her hand, cradled in his. Foolish I am to be so near you. Foolish to waste my time in dreams with so many dragons at the door.
“Sometimes things seem better when you talk about them,” Quentin offered, tightening his hold. He wished he could listen to all her troubles and share his with her.
“I suppose you always do so?” she said with light sarcasm.
“I did—when my brother Thomas was still alive.”
The genuine sorrow in his voice drew her gaze to his. She recalled his feverish frantic words that first night. “Was your brother supposed to marry the dammed earl’s daughter before he died?” slipped out unbidden.
Quentin’s eyes narrowed.
“Something you said that first night,” Maddie explained. “You called for Thomas and spoke of your father.”
A frown darkened Quentin’s features but he held to his course. “What was the reason for that tear?” he pressed.
“Your—your salute reminded me of my cousin, Jamey.” She bit her lip, then plunged ahead. “I know you were a military man. Did you know my cousin?”
“Do you love him?” Quentin silently swore, disturbed that he had spoken aloud the question that had troubled him since he first laid eyes on Maddie.
“It does not matter,” she said. “He was killed in a skirmish on the Peninsula in January.” She read the persistent question in his eyes. “Yes,” she whispered, paused. “No, at least not the way you mean.”
“How do you know?”
The warmth of a flush crept over her cheeks. Maddie raised her chin. “When we kissed, it was the same as when Malcolm or one of my sisters kisses me goodnight.”
“Perhaps that is not a true comparison,” Quentin offered with false nonchalance. Unable to resist the impulse thrashing his conscience and common sense, Quentin reached for Maddie’s shoulders. Drawing her towards him, he whispered, “Do you have any other man’s kiss to compare it to?”
Maddie tried to will the pulse thudding in her ears quiet, to calm the thoughts of the impropriety of his closeness. She shook her head. Her heartbeat paused. Heat welled as he pulled her against him.
His lips captured hers. A wild tattoo skittered through Maddie’s veins, desire unfurled deep within her.
Quentin, stunned by his response to her, forgot his doubts, his resolves. He deepened the kiss. His heart hammered in his ears. There was an instant reaction in his groin. An overwhelming hunger crushed the cries of his conscience.
Maddie recognized his need in an instant awareness of hers. Her hands went to his chest, paused at the ridge of the long scar beneath his shirt, then crept up to cradle his face. Her entire body responded to the movement of his lips, to the caress of his tongue across her lower lip.
At her gentle touch, Quentin released her lips. He crushed her against his chest and dropped kisses on her hair.
Maddie smelled of roses. It filled his senses. Her scent and the warmth and texture of her velvet skin against his hand summoned vivid memories: Maddie changing the dressings on his wounds, Maddie asleep in the armchair, the sensations she aroused when she smoothed back his hair, the burning trail of her fingers over the healing red slash on his right side. It was overpowering. Revelatory.
Pulling back with a ragged gasp, Quentin stared. His surprise at his sudden insight was blazed across his features.
The shock in his eyes ended Maddie’s freefall with a sickening lurch. Frantic questions, fears, condemnations tumbled over each other. Her mind grasped at the odd sound outside the balcony’s doors and she jumped to her feet. The anger she saw cover his stunned expression amplified her confusion.
Quentin cursed. He swung his legs off the bed and pushed her back.
With a gasp, Maddie fled.
One of the balcony’s doors edged open after the door closed behind her. Jenks slunk in carrying a valise and a sack. He set them down and quickly closed the door. His fierc
e look admonished Quentin.
“Well, Major,” he quipped with asperity. “I thought to find you in desperate straits. I see it is far worse than ever I imagined. What in God’s name—”
“I doubt God would be pleased to have His name mentioned in any of this,” Quentin ground out, his conscience back in force. He stepped away from the bed only to turn and sink back on it, his hand clamped against his side.
“Told you I shouldn’t stay in Dover,” Jenks snarled. “Found our dammed traitor, did ya?” He laid Quentin back and moved his legs onto the bed in one fluid motion. “Did he fare better than you?”
“Wish I knew,” Quentin ground out. He closed his eyes, drew in and slowly released several deep breaths and tried to will thoughts of Maddie to perdition. Too many obstacles had to be cleared away and one or two questions answered first.
The military strategist in him took over. “Were you able to get everything?”
In the act of retying the strip of material holding the bandages against Broyal’s wounds, Jenks paused, then jerked it tighter than necessary. “Aye, and that assortment of devilish items would give those who know you cause to wonder about the state of your mind.”
Finished with the knot, the peevish batman asked, “Would you mind tellin’ me why you had your back turned when the ball hit you?”
Quentin ignored the question. “Any trouble keeping away from the Preventives?”
“Those unseasoned twigs?” scoffed the batman. “’Tis a good thing Boney ain’t likely to land on these shores. But I picked up some interestin’ information from ‘em. This Partridge fellow you wanted to know more about?”
“Yes?” Broyal prompted.
“He also went by the name Lambert. Mr. Lambert had a ball put through him much like you. Except he’s dead. Body washed ashore, so I heard.
“More to the point, mayhaps, he had a Frenchie staying with him. Capt’n Medworth is frothin’ at the mouth to visit with him as well as with Matthew Vincouer. They’re layin’ bets how soon the Capt’n comes up to scratch for Vincouer’s daughter.”
Jenks peered at Broyal’s scowl, then rummaged in the valise. He pulled out a packet of letters and an official ecclesiastical document. “’Haps the Capt’n’ll yet save you from doin’ something bloody foolish.”
