by Anne Stuart
She needed to wait until she’d found enough money to book passage to France. At least that would ensure a certain amount of privacy, and once out of the country, she could wear skirts again. If she wanted to. She’d miss the blessed freedom of breeches.
For the time being, she was better off staying where she was. The past three days had been full of hard work, but she was strong, stronger even than the two strapping serving maids who kept ogling her. Bessie was a motherly soul and a wonderful cook, Mowbray was gruff and kind, and even the two silly girls usually found better things to chase after. In all, she was content to stay on in Hampton Regis until the proper opportunity came along.
But right now she couldn’t stand another moment in this stuffy attic. She wanted to run along the beach, barefoot, and feel the salt spray in her hair. She wanted to breathe in the air, lie in the sand, listen to the sound of the night birds. For a few short hours she wanted to feel free again.
She pulled on the brown breeches beneath her voluminous shirt, not bothering with the linen binding that flattened her small breasts. She left her hose and her shoes behind, rolling up the modestly laced sleeves to her tanned elbows and letting her hair flow free.
She’d learned to move silently in her years away from England. No one heard her as she tiptoed down the narrow, winding back stairs. The kitchen fire was banked, still sending out waves of stifling heat, and she paused long enough to cut herself a hunk of bread before she headed out into the moonlit night.
There were stars overhead in the inky-black sky, the same stars that looked down over Egypt. When she reached the sandy beach she shoved the bread into her pocket and took off at a run, racing barefoot along the wet sand, the wind tugging at her hair, plastering the white cambric shirt against her body. She leapt over rocks, danced along the edge of the water, took deep, cleansing breaths of the clear salt air, so intent on the sheer, mindless pleasure that she didn’t realize she wasn’t alone on the beach until she slammed full force into a tall, unyielding figure.
The tiny scream of shock that erupted from her throat was definitely girlish. She choked it back as hard, strong hands caught her arms, holding tight, and she looked up, way up in the darkness, into the face of the man she’d been afraid to dream about.
She didn’t even know his name. Mowbray hadn’t mentioned it, and she’d been unwilling to ask. It didn’t matter. He was a member of the quality, and obviously not interested in a serving lad. Which didn’t explain why he held her arms so tightly, why his fingers seemed to caress her skin through the thin cambric shirt, why he stared down into her face so searchingly.
“What are you doing out here at this hour?” he demanded abruptly, his voice harsh in the still night air.
She didn’t bother to wonder why her comings and goings should interest him. “It was too hot to sleep,” she said, consciously deepening her voice. “Sir,” she added as an afterthought.
A ghost of a smile flitted across his face, but his grip on her arms didn’t loosen. “That’s a proper lad,” he said, his voice mocking. “Remember to do the pretty to your betters.”
Juliette wasn’t in the habit of considering anyone, particularly a man, her better, but she swallowed back her instinctive retort. She tried to squirm away, but his hands tightened painfully. “Might I go back to the inn?” She made her voice properly deferential, lowering her defiant gaze.
“I don’t think that would be a particularly wise idea.”
She glanced up at him again, not bothering to mask her surprise. “Why not?”
“I’ve just come from the Fowl and Feathers,” he said in a reasonable voice. “I’ve spent the past three hours trying to drink Sir Neville under the table, and so far I’ve had absolutely no success. I was hoping a walk on the beach might clear my head so that I could approach my task with renewed energy.”
“Why were you trying to drink him under the table?” she asked, forgetting for a moment that a proper young lad wouldn’t presume to question the quality. By the time she remembered, he was already answering her artless question.
“Because, my dear boy, he needed distraction from his primary goal.”
“And what was that? Sir,” she added hastily, wishing he’d release her arms.
He did, but the result was even more unnerving. He touched her face, pushing her dark brown hair back from her brow. “You, Julian Smith.”
She held herself very still beneath his suddenly gentle hand and his mocking gaze. He must have asked Mowbray her name, but why should he have bothered? And why should he want to protect her from a frivolous creature like Sir Neville?
“I believe I’m capable of looking after myself,” she said. “I’ve been on my own for the past five years.”
“Have you, indeed? And have you had much experience with gentlemen such as Sir Neville? Gentlemen with a preference for pretty young boys?”
She glanced up at him, taking a deliberate step backward. “Not until tonight.”
It took him a moment to realize what she was saying. She half expected rage to darken that cool, mocking face. Instead, he laughed. “Not me, lad. I find women to be vastly more entertaining. I just happen to have a soft spot in my heart for stray lambs.”
“I’m hardly a stray lamb,” she said frostily. “And I can protect myself from the likes of Sir Neville.”
The dark man didn’t deny it. He just looked at her from those mocking silver eyes, his thin mouth curved in a faintly derisive smile. “Such a brave soul,” he said softly, and she shivered in the warm night air. “Sir Neville could make mincemeat out of you if he wanted to. He’s not quite as frivolous as he seems.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I wouldn’t count on it.” His voice was low, and curiously beguiling. Until Juliette remembered that she wasn’t the sort to be beguiled by a mysterious man on a moonlit beach.
She turned then and ran. She was half afraid he’d reach out those strong hands and capture her again, but he let her go, standing motionless in the moonlight, watching her as she ran up the strand. She didn’t dare glance behind her. For some reason, the man unnerved her with his cool, steady glance. She didn’t trust any man, including this dark, nameless one who’d deemed himself her savior.
She didn’t know what idiocy made her enter the front of the building, rather than sneaking in through the kitchen. She wanted to get back to the safety of her attic room, away from eyes that could see too clearly in the darkness, away from hands that were hard and gentle at the same time.
She’d forgotten whom he’d left behind. She no sooner had reached the stairs than she saw Sir Neville lounging near the fireplace, a dazed, bleary expression on his pale, powdered face. If the other man had planned to outdrink Sir Neville, it was clear he’d had more success than he’d realized. Pinworth seemed barely conscious. Until he looked up and saw her.
Sir Neville rose on unsteady feet, mincing toward Juliette as she paused at the foot of the stairs, momentarily transfixed. “There you are, lad,” he said in his soft, slurred voice. “Been looking for you. Came here hoping to find you, but then Ramsey got in the way. Got a”—he hiccupped loudly—”a little proposition for you. Come back to Pinworth Manor with me. You’ll like it, I know you will. A pretty lad like you shouldn’t waste your time carrying slops and mucking out the stables. You’ll ruin your soft little hands.” He captured one of those hands in his, and his grip was surprisingly strong.
“Please, Sir Neville,” she said, trying to break free and squash down the desperation that filled her. She’d been too rash when she’d told the other man she could take care of herself. She was finding she was far from able to handle the amorous attentions of one drunken aristocrat.
“Oh, I do please, boy,” he said, reaching his other hand to pull her against him. “I do, indeed.”
“Take your hands off the boy, Pinworth.” The voice was low and chillingly pleasant. The dark man stood in the doorway, calm, unruffled, and absolutely implacable.
Sir
Neville pouted, still clutching at her. “Why should I, Ramsey? I saw him first. It’s not as if I’m suggesting anything so unusual, and I know for a fact that you don’t share my tastes. Leave us alone and I’ll convince the lad.”
“I don’t think so.” Ramsey stepped into the room, and Sir Neville wasn’t so sotted that he didn’t recognize a threat when confronted with one. He released Juliette, albeit reluctantly, and she sank back against the stairs, rubbing her bruised wrist, wrapping her arms protectively around herself.
“Don’t be a spoilsport, Ramsey. He won’t be so hard to convince. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He could be persuaded to shower that attention on someone who’d be more appreciative of it.” Sir Neville’s voice had deteriorated into a slurred whine.
Ramsey’s mouth curved in a sardonic smile, but he didn’t even glance over at Juliette’s huddled figure. “You see what you want to see. As a matter of fact, Valerie was asking about the boy, and I promised to bring him back to Sutter’s Head. We could use the extra help.”
“So could I!” Sir Neville protested.
“Here now, what’s all this?” Mowbray appeared at the top of the stairs, his grizzled gray hair going every which way. “Oh, begging your pardon, Mr. Ramsey. I didn’t realize you and his lordship were still here. Where is that Agnes? I’ll give her a hiding …”
“We sent her off,” Ramsey said easily. “We had need of a bit of privacy.”
Mowbray looked startled. “You, Mr. Ramsey? I … er … hadn’t realized …” His glance fell on Juliette, and he looked even more troubled. “What’s the lad been up to?”
“I’m stealing him, Mowbray,” Ramsey said. “We have need of a young lad to help around the house, and Julian here seemed a likely sort. I assume you have no objections.”
“But I want him!” Sir Neville wailed.
Mowbray took all this in, a disturbed look on his face as he slowly descended the stairs until he came even with Juliette. She kept her arms wrapped around her, acutely aware that her breasts were unbound beneath the thin shirt. “What do you want to do, lad?” he asked kindly. “There’s no denying that Sir Neville would be generous, and a lad sometimes can’t afford to be too picky about how he’s to make his way in the world. But you’ve got choices. You can stay on here—we’ll find work for you somehow. Or you can go with Mr. Ramsey.”
Juliette looked up at him. She knew as well as he did that the Fowl and Feathers couldn’t support another mouth to feed for long. And Sir Neville’s intentions were painfully obvious. If she went with him, he’d be doomed to a major disappointment in no time whatsoever. And she’d be unmasked.
Which left Mr. Ramsey. She glanced at him beneath her heavy lashes, hoping he wouldn’t read the expression on her face. He frightened her, in ways no man had ever managed to do. Mark-David Lemur had hurt her. Sir Neville’s intentions were far from pristine. She’d been in fear for her life on any number of occasions, running from bandits in Egypt, hiding from white slavers in Morocco, with only her father and her own wits to protect her. This dark man, who neither desired her body nor her pain, could hurt her far more than any of them.
“I’ll go with Mr. Ramsey, sir,” she said quietly.
Mowbray sighed. “Are you certain, lad?”
She nodded, wishing her hair were still tied back in a queue. Even at its current short length, it was too girlish falling around her face. “Certain.”
If she expected Mr. Ramsey to be pleased, her expectations were dashed. He simply nodded, as if it was no less than he expected. “Get your things,” he said.
“Now? Tonight?” Her voice shook slightly. She’d made her decision. She just wasn’t ready to act on it.
“I’m leaving for home in the next ten minutes. It’s a long walk out to Sutter’s Head, Julian.”
“You can always change your mind,” Sir Neville said, swaying slightly.
“I’ll be ready in five minutes,” Juliette said, scampering barefoot up the stairs.
There was no sign of Sir Neville when she walked out into the moonlit stable yard. She’d dressed quickly, pulling on her hose and jacket, lacing the stout brogues. She hadn’t dared risk taking time to bind her breasts, hoping the loose coat and the darkness would cover any betraying curves. At least her figure was conveniently boyish to begin with. If she’d been shaped like Agnes, there would have been no way she could ever carry off such a masquerade.
Ramsey was standing next to his midnight-black gelding, waiting with deceptive patience. “Is that all you have?” he asked, glancing at the small parcel that held her extra clothing and all her worldly possessions.
“It is. Sir,” she added, cursing herself. She had no difficulty in being properly deferential to everyone else. What was there about this man that made her risk everything for the sake of petty defiance?
The lines bracketing his mouth deepened faintly as he smiled. “Do you want to ride in front or behind?”
Juliette looked up at the horse. It had been months since she’d ridden, and Ramsey’s gelding was a high-strung beauty. “I’d rather walk.”
“Not your choice, lad. I’m due back at Sutter’s Head, and I’m taking you with me. Can’t disappoint a lady.”
“But I don’t …” Her protest was in vain as he reached out with his hard, strong hands and lifted her up, way up, and plopped her down on the horse’s back.
“Steady, Sable,” he soothed, vaulting up behind her, settling his body tight against hers. She tried to sit forward, to keep her back ramrod-stiff, but it was a losing battle.
He caught the reins, his arms threading around her, and though he didn’t embrace her, she could feel their enveloping presence as surely as she could feel his legs at the backs of her thighs. She shivered in the hot night air.
Mowbray came racing out into the stable yard, a knotted kerchief in his hand. “You forgot this, Julian,” he said, thrusting it into her hand. “Your wages.”
She could feel the solid weight of good English coin beneath the thin linen. “But I haven’t earned …”
“Keep it,” Mowbray said, wrapping her fingers around the little parcel. “It gives you a choice.”
She forgot who she was. Tears of gratitude filled her eyes, and she leaned down from the horse and kissed him on his grizzled cheek. Mowbray looked startled for a moment, and then he grinned. “You look out for yourself, laddie. And if you need a place to stay, there’s always room at the Fowl and Feathers for you.”
A moment later they were off, riding in silence toward the end of town, the horse’s hooves making a quiet ringing sound on the cobbled roadway. Juliette kept her back straight, trying to ignore the sudden weariness that swept over her, trying to ignore the warmth of the body pressed up close behind her, the strength in the arms that surrounded but didn’t touch her, the muscles in the long thighs behind her.
“You might want to watch who you go about kissing, young Julian,” Ramsey said after a few minutes, when the road had turned to dusty ruts and the town had receded into the distance. “Some might misunderstand.”
She could feel her face flush, and once more she thanked God for the dark night and the fact that she rode ahead of him. “I was brought up to show affection,” she said stiffly.
“Were you, now? I’d suggest you be careful where you bestow that affection. People might take advantage of you.”
“I can look after myself.”
“So you’ve said. You have yet to convince me.”
She swiveled around in the saddle to face him, and immediately she knew she’d made a mistake. She was better off not looking at him. Better off not moving any closer. But now that she’d made such a rash move, she was determined not to show him how he affected her.
“Is that why you’re taking me back to your house, Mr. Ramsey?” she demanded boldly. “Are you still under the mistaken notion that I’m a young boy who needs rescuing?”
He looked down at her for a moment, and his gray eyes shone silver in the moonlight. “No,” he sai
d.
It wasn’t much of an answer, but she had enough sense not to press him for an explanation. She turned back, trying to shrink within the oversize clothes she’d traded with a banker’s son who’d traveled on the same boat from Portugal.
“Does your sister really expect you to bring me back?” she asked, staring down at the horse’s silky black mane, trying not to look at the well-shaped hands that held the reins.
“My sister?” He sounded startled. “You mean Valerie? I’m sorry to say she’s my wife.”
There was no logical reason why Juliette found that information distressing. But then, she’d grown accustomed to illogic. She turned to glance up at him again, ignoring the danger. “Why are you sorry?” she asked.
“Forgetting your place again, Julian?”
She jerked her head around again, staring straight ahead. “Beg pardon, sir,” she muttered.
“Why don’t you pull your forelock while you’re at it?” he mocked. “I’m sorry she’s my wife because she’s a completely ramshackle female, wild and reckless, always getting herself into trouble, and I’m a very staid gentleman indeed. It’s all I can do to keep her in line.”
Juliette had met a great many gentlemen in her travels, both staid and otherwise, and the man sitting behind her, his long, strong arms lightly around her, was the furthest thing from those respectable and unexciting men she’d come to regard as staid. As a matter of fact, a little staidness, a little solemnity, would be welcome at the moment. Life had been far too harum-scarum in the past few months. Juliette would have given anything to be bored.
“Odd,” she said. “I would have sworn you were related. You have the same eyes.”
“Very observant. As a matter of fact, we are related, by blood as well as by the bonds of marriage. Valerie happens to be my second cousin. Most people don’t notice any resemblance. But then, you’re not most people, are you, my boy?”
