by Anne Stuart
“I gather that in this particular corner of the world they simply clubbed them on the head to make sure there were no witnesses.”
She shivered in the warm sunlight, and she glanced past him with faint anxiety, as if she expected the wreckers to suddenly reappear.
“Don’t worry,” Phelan said. “The wreckers stopped their profession more than half a century ago. If any of their descendants live on, they doubtless are as law-abiding and God-fearing as you and I.”
“That’s not necessarily a recommendation,” she muttered.
“True enough for me. I expect you’re far more conventional than you first appear.”
She lifted her head to stare at him in unguarded surprise. “I don’t appear conventional?” she asked.
“Not particularly.”
“Well,” she said briskly, “you’d be greatly surprised.”
He turned and continued down the narrow pathway. “I am seldom surprised, young Julian. I am jaded beyond belief, and it takes a very great deal to amaze me. How do you intend to do it? By proving that you really do appear conventional? Or that beneath your slightly odd demeanor you’re an absolute madcap?”
“Neither. I am exactly what I seem to be.”
“Of course you are, lad,” he said, enjoying himself. “I never doubted you for a moment.”
He heard her slip half a second before she shrieked. The scatter of pebbles beneath her feet, the quick, panicked intake of breath, and he’d whirled around to catch her as her burden went flying in all directions.
She landed in his arms with a solid thud, and he decided she must have breasts, if she had to take the trouble to bind them. She was soft in his arms, and damn it, she smelled like a woman. Faintly flowery, faintly musky, and just slightly like Dulcie’s best cinnamon rolls. He wondered what she’d taste like.
She was trembling. He didn’t release her, though he knew he ought to. He was never a man who did something simply because it was what he ought to do.
Her waist was damnably small beneath the thick jacket, and her hips flared sweetly beneath his hands. She was well past the seventeen years she claimed—in the bright sunlight he could see too much knowledge in her wary brown eyes, and he had a sudden desire to wash that sad knowledge away.
As if he could. He released her, so abruptly that she stumbled for a moment before righting herself. “I’ll carry the things the rest of the way,” he said in a cool voice, gathering up the fallen parcels.
She tried to protest. “It’s my duty …”
“You are the least dutiful serving lad it has been my misfortune to meet,” Phelan said flatly. “I don’t wish to have my luncheon mixed with sand, or my art supplies crushed, or my—” He picked up the shattered bottle of claret and stared at it mournfully. “Or my wine shattered,” he added heavily.
If he expected her to be cowed, he was in for a disappointment. “You could always beat me,” she suggested, her coolness matching his own.
He glanced at her, his eyes narrowed in the sunlight, giving her a look that had intimidated many a grown man. She didn’t even flinch. “Don’t tempt me,” he growled.
Dead Man’s Cove was a deceptively peaceful half-moon of a beach, with the still, gray water masking dangerous shoals. One might think it a perfect little harbor, until one saw the ghostly hulk of a ship listing on its side, its broken masts eerie against the bright blue sky. Once Phelan reached the sand, he dumped his burden down and began to strip off his jacket. He glanced back at the girl, but she was standing a few feet away from him, staring at the wreck with troubled eyes.
“How long ago did that ship founder?” she asked.
“I’m not certain. She’s still fairly solid—I would guess no more than fifty years ago. The salt water tends to preserve the wood for a bit. She probably won’t fall apart for at least another fifty years.” He dropped his coat onto the sand, sat on it, and proceeded to pull off his boots. “You might consider stripping down yourself, lad,” he said in a silken voice. “It’s damnably hot today, and those shoes are too big for you. You’d do better barefoot.”
She looked torn, as well she might. “I prefer to keep my jacket on,” she said.
He rose, moving toward her, his bare feet reveling in the feel of the sand. “And I prefer you remove it,” he said. “Since you’re my servant, it would behoove you to do as I say.”
He could see by the expression in her eyes that it took all her self-control not to retreat in the face of his steady advance. “And if I refuse?”
He smiled. She was not reassured. “Then I’ll remove it for you.”
She stripped off the coat, hurriedly. The cambric shirt beneath was too big for her, of course, and successfully masked any curves that might have escaped whatever she used to bind herself.
“And the shoes,” he said, very gently.
She glared at him, but she was wise enough not to argue. She dropped down onto the sand and began to remove the oversize brogues.
Satisfied, Phelan retrieved his sketchbook and pencils and started away from her. “I don’t like to be disturbed while I’m working,” he called back over his shoulder. “Find something to amuse yourself with while I sketch this old wreck.”
“If you don’t like to be disturbed, then why did you bring me?” she asked stubbornly, sitting there with her small, delicate bare feet stretched out.
“Julian, my lad,” Phelan said sadly, “you must learn proper deference if you’re going to remain in your current role.”
“Current role?” she echoed, trying to disguise her nervousness.
“As a servant, my lad,” he said in a soothing voice, amused. “Servants are supposed to be silent and subservient. Never challenging. While I work you might take a walk along the water’s edge and meditate on the error of your ways.”
“You’re very generous, sir,” she said in a dulcet voice, staring angrily at him beneath lowered lids.
He smiled. “You really have no idea, my boy.”
He knew. There was no reason why he should have guessed, and Juliette told herself she was panicking over nothing, but she couldn’t rid herself of the belief that her mysterious new employer, Mr. Philip Ramsey, knew she was unquestionably female.
She’d done nothing to give herself away, of that she was certain. She’d perfected a boy’s walk, part swagger, part stride. She held her narrow shoulders back, even whistled when she remembered to, and kept her small chin stuck out at a faintly pugnacious angle.
Indeed, she didn’t really know how to be a woman, at least not the kind of woman he would be used to. She was uncomfortable in dresses, ignorant of most social minutiae, and totally incapable of flirting. After her enforced sojourn with Mark-David Lemur, she found proximity to the majority of the male sex distasteful. She did her best to look and think and act like a boy, and there was no way her new master could guess her secret.
Once more she contemplated leaving. She had come to the port of Hampton Regis for one reason and one reason only. To earn enough money and then book passage on the next ship bound for sunnier climates. She didn’t particularly care where—Greece, Arabia, Egypt, even Italy were all acceptable to her. Some place where she could live on the pittance her diamond-and-pearl earbobs would bring her, some place where she wouldn’t run into the man who called himself her husband.
She put her toes in the icy water, shivering slightly. Even in this heat, the chilly Atlantic waters didn’t warm. Not the way the Mediterranean, the Aegean, the Nile did. She wanted to see those waters again. Only there would she be safe from the man who hunted her. She could disappear into the countryside, blend in with the people, and a starched-up Englishman like Mark-David would be helpless to track her down. Here in England she was far more vulnerable, and each passing day was a danger.
She glanced back at the man who had brought her to this desolate, beautiful stretch of coast. He was leaning against an outcropping of rock, his sketchbook propped on one knee, and he was totally absorbed in his work. His dark hai
r had fallen around his face, and his slightly thin mouth was taut with concentration. Surely if he had any inkling of her secret, he’d hardly bring her to such a secluded spot and then proceed to ignore her.
No, she was getting fanciful. The strain of the past weeks was taking its toll on her. Too much hiding, too much hard work, and not enough food or sleep. And worrying, always worrying, that Lemur would pop out from behind a rock and claim her.
He wouldn’t, of course. He could have no earthly idea where she was. After she’d disappeared from the hotel in London, he’d probably tried to track her to the nearest major port. That was the primary reason she’d chosen Hampton Regis. It was small enough to be relatively unknown, large enough for some of the more modest ships bound for the Mediterranean. If Lemur were to search for her, and undoubtedly he would, he’d concentrate his efforts in Dover and Plymouth, and not waste his time on the tiny ports dotting the British seacoast.
And, of course, he wouldn’t be looking for a boy.
He knew of her predilection for boys’ clothes—after all, he’d known her for most of her twenty-two years. But he would assume, with typical male arrogance, that she would never willingly don trousers when presented with the sumptuous dresses he’d had made for her.
She hated every one of those dresses, with their high, strangling necklines, heavy skirts, and muddy colors. She hated the tight lacing underneath, the layers of petticoats, the uncomfortable shoes. But most of all, she hated anything that came from Mark-David Lemur.
The tide was coming in, bubbling along the sand with cheerful insouciance, and Juliette leaned down to roll up the legs of her trousers. Even icy British seawater was welcome.
She wondered if she’d made a very grave mistake in leaving the Fowl and Feathers, in coming with Philip Ramsey in the first place. Surely she would have found her way out of Pinworth’s clutches—if she’d managed to escape Lemur, she could get away from anyone. She glanced over at her employer, still rapt in his work. Ramsey might prove a bit more difficult to get away from. His silver-gray eyes were a great deal more far-seeing than Sir Neville’s protuberant orbs, or even Lemur’s colorless gaze. It would take a fair amount of thought and daring to outwit the strong, powerful man who lounged on the beach nearby.
Juliette had little doubt that she had the brains and the determination to do so. She simply had to decide her course. At her current level of employment, she’d earn enough for passage to the south of Italy by the time she was thirty. Not a happy proposition. She couldn’t sell her earbobs. For one thing, the MacGowan diamonds were well-known—if she tried to pawn them in this provincial country, she could bring her nemesis to her doorstep. Besides, she’d need that money to live on once she found a place to settle down.
No, in order to get out of the country, she would simply have to steal. The lady of the house had jewels littering her dressing table in a haphazard fashion—Juliette had already ascertained that. She could take one of the more modest pieces and hope she could trade it with some unscrupulous captain for a berth. Or she could keep her eye out for cash. If Ramsey irritated her enough, she’d take it all.
On second thought, it was just as well she’d accepted his offer. Mowbray and Bessie had been too kind to steal from. Philip Ramsey, with his sardonic air and veiled comments, deserved whatever was coming to him.
The sun was high overhead, and doubtless a proper young serving lad would set about his duties. Dulcie had packed a mountain of food; Juliette knew that because her shoulders still ached from the weight of the basket. She wondered if she was supposed to share the meal, or wait until her lord and master was finished and then retire behind a rock to finish the leftovers. Or even wait until they made the long climb back up that twisting trail to the house at Sutter’s Head.
She glanced up to the top of the headland, and a stray shiver danced across her backbone. She could almost see them, the wreckers of old, with their false promise of safety, luring ship after ship to a rocky doom on the shoals of Dead Man’s Cove. She wondered if they’d ever paid for their crimes. Whether the ghosts of their victims haunted that derelict ship, and the cove itself.
Juliette refused to believe in ghosts. Nevertheless, it suddenly seemed a wise idea to move closer to her irritating employer. She strolled toward him, glancing idly over his shoulder at the sketch he was working on.
He slapped the pad facedown on his knees and grimaced at her. “I don’t like an audience for my work,” he said.
“It’s very good,” she said, surprised. The rough sketch was more than an accurate compilation of details. It conveyed the sense of eerie desolation, of loss and sorrow and conscienceless crime.
“An art critic, my boy?” he drawled, gazing up at her out of those perceptive silver eyes. “I merely dabble at it. Something to help me remember my travels.”
It was a thick sketch pad, well worn. Without considering the consequences, she held out her hand for it. To her surprise, he handed it to her, watching as she sank down in the sand beside him and began leafing through it.
He was more than good. He was astonishing. The depth and detail, the emotion and wit, in his pen-and-ink drawings brought each scene to life, from a bazaar in some Arabian city to a goatherd in what looked like Greece. She turned page after page, overcome with nostalgia, stopping with surprise at the drawing of a spectacularly naked woman.
“Sarita,” she said, her voice rich with amusement.
She’d managed to shock her companion. He stared at her. “How in God’s name would you know the most famous courtesan in Alexandria?” he demanded.
Juliette smiled, a smug, boyish smile. “I’ve traveled a bit in me time,” she said. “I’ve even been in her house on El-Babeer Street.”
His dark eyebrows drew together in blatant disapproval. “You shouldn’t have been,” he said flatly. “Who was fool enough to take you there?”
“My f-friend.” She’d been about to say her father. Indeed, she’d been all of twelve at the time, dressed as a boy as usual, and Sarita had fed her sugared grapes and sweetmeats before she disappeared with Black Jack MacGowan, leaving the young Juliette to entertain herself with Sarita’s pet monkey. “When I was fifteen,” she continued, embroidering the tale. “M’friend and I saved up our money and went to see her for an initiation, so to speak.”
“I doubt it,” he said wryly. “She doesn’t waste her time with scrubby schoolboys.”
“Am not!”
“Then what are you, young Julian?” he asked in a voice that barely disguised its menace.
Damn him, Juliette thought. He couldn’t know the truth, but he was certainly perceptive enough to know there was more to her than met the eye.
She drew her knees up, clasping her hands around them and turning to look at him. She hadn’t realized she was sitting so close. He was lounging against the rock in a comfortable enough posture, but she couldn’t rid herself of the notion that all that graceful energy lay curled beneath the surface, ready to leap into action. He was not a restful man.
“What do you think I am?” she countered boldly.
He smiled then, that small, taunting smile that made her want to slap him. “I’m not quite sure. Perhaps it would be easier to tell you what I don’t think you are.”
Juliette could feel the chill of fear in the pit of her stomach, but she refused to give in to it. “All right,” she said. “What don’t you think I am?”
“I don’t think you’re a serving lad. Apparently you told Dulcie your mother was a serving maid and your father was a sailor. I doubt that very much. Someone in your parentage comes from the upper classes. I imagine you might be some minor aristocrat’s bastard. The serving-maid mother might be accurate enough. I know of a likely lad with just such a parentage.”
“Not me, sir,” Juliette denied it. “My father was a sailor. Took me with him, he did, when my mother passed away. Then he died aboard ship, and I was stranded in Egypt with no one to look after me. I learned how to take care of myself early on.”
“Indeed,” he murmured. “And what made you return to England? Homesickness? Patriotism? Longing for your native land?”
She tried to keep the grimace from her face. “It was a mistake,” she said. “I thought I ought to come back and see if I could find some of my mother’s people. But they’d all died out, and there was no one. So I’m off for sunny climates again, as soon as I can earn passage.”
“You could always sign on as cabin boy,” Ramsey suggested, mockery dancing in his gray eyes. “You’re a pretty enough lad, and I wouldn’t imagine you’d have any trouble getting a position.”
“Considering the trouble you went to to save me from Sir Neville’s attentions, that would be somewhat of a waste, wouldn’t it?” Juliette countered.
“No trouble at all, my boy,” he murmured. “Think nothing of it. But if you think you’re going to earn passage to Egypt on the salary I’m planning to pay you, then you greatly overestimate my affection for you.”
Juliette bit her lip. She shouldn’t have been so frank about her plans, but in truth, he had a way of getting inside her guard. “I intend to look for the right opportunity.”
“I’m certain you do. Remind me to tell Hannigan to lock up all our valuables.”
“Sir!” Juliette protested. “I wouldn’t think of repaying your kindness by stealing.”
“Julian!” he mocked in an identical tone of voice. “I believe you’re capable of just about anything. Why don’t you see what delights Dulcie has packed for us? I, for one, am famished.”
She started to rise with unconscious grace, then quickly remembered her role. “Right-o, guv’nor,” she said, giving him a little salute.
His mocking voice drifted over to her as she rummaged through the picnic basket. “You and I have something in common, my boy.”
“What’s that, sir?” She was getting adept at remembering the “sirs,” Juliette thought, proud of herself.
“A dislike for ‘this blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,’” he said.
