Shadow Dance

by Anne Stuart

  “Yes, sir,” she said with what she hoped was suitable deference as she began to gather the remnants of their picnic lunch together. His sketch pad was a few feet away, and she reached it just as he did, her hands touching the worn leather cover before he could snatch it away from her.

  “I’ll take that,” he said sharply, yanking.

  She still had a problem with obedience. She held on, and the resistance, slight though it was, was unexpected enough to make him let go. The sketch pad fell in the sand, opening to a rough drawing of a beautiful woman sleeping.

  Juliette stared at it in shock. Of course it wasn’t a woman. It was the person Ramsey thought of as Julian Smith. And she wasn’t beautiful at all, never had been. Except that in the brief, clever lines of his pencil she looked quite lovely and surprisingly sensual. Like an enchanted creature in a fairy tale, waiting to be awakened. Except that a man usually did the job, and he did it with a kiss. And probably more as well. She preferred to sleep on, untouched.

  It unnerved her to think he’d sat there watching her while she slept, sketching her. There were certain primitive people who felt that if you sketched their likeness you captured their soul, and she couldn’t rid herself of the strange, superstitious thought that while he’d captured her on paper he’d taken part of her into him. A part she could never recapture. The thought was infinitely troubling.

  “Not bad,” she blustered, picking up the drawing and looking at it with a critical eye. “But you made me look too much like a girl.” It was a bold move, and she waited for his response.

  “Julian, my boy,” he said, taking the pad out of her hand, “you quite astonish me.”

  “How so, sir?”

  Ramsey put his hand under her chin, and once more the touch of his flesh against hers sent flashes of heat through her veins. And she was already too hot. “You are totally fearless, aren’t you?” His voice was oddly gentle.

  It was a strange thing to say. Juliette didn’t move away from his mesmerizing touch; indeed, she couldn’t even break his gaze. She was far from fearless—she was terrified of snakes and rats and Mark-David Lemur. Surely someone who could see through her defenses so ruthlessly would know that.

  But she wasn’t about to say so. She wet her dry lips. “What’s to be afraid of?” she said, her voice slightly raspy, but she told herself it simply made her appear more boyish, not unaccountably nervous.

  He smiled, and this time there was no mockery at all. It was a sweet, beguiling smile, and a part of Juliette’s hard heart began to melt. “Sometime I’ll tell you,” he murmured. “But not now.” He released her chin, took the sketch pad from her nerveless hands, and turned away.

  It was a good thing he did. She needed a moment or two to collect herself. She watched him move across the sand, and she shivered. There had been more eroticism in the gentle touch of his hand on her face than she’d experienced in all of Lemur’s assaults on her body. And suddenly she was very frightened indeed.

  They made the climb back up the narrow path in silence. She went ahead of him, not particularly wanting to, but he gave her no choice. He carried everything—her protests about that had been in vain also. It was just as well. She scampered up the steep path, agile as a mountain goat, and hoped he wasn’t paying too much attention to her backside. She suspected, though of course she couldn’t be certain, that her derriere was nothing like a boy’s.

  If she’d hoped he’d be too burdened down to be distracted, she’d greatly underestimated his strength. By the time they reached the bluff, he looked cool and collected, not the slightest bit winded by the steep climb and the heavy pack. Juliette found that deceptive strength disturbing. But then, she found everything about Philip Ramsey disturbing.

  “Come along, lad,” he said, striding across the headland. “If I know you, you’re probably ready to eat again. You’ve already proven to have a bottomless pit for a stomach.”

  Juliette scampered after him, feeling curiously lighthearted. For now she was stuck with him, in the comfortable old house at Sutter’s Head, overlooking the sea. She might as well accept it, and enjoy it. “I expect I will grow sadly fat,” she said cheerfully.

  “You could do with a bit more padding.”

  “I’m still a growing lad,” she protested.

  “Are you, now?” The question was lightly spoken, and Juliette refused to allow herself to react.

  “Indeed,” she said, catching up with him. “Haven’t even reached my full height yet. Not that I’ll be as tall as you, sir,” she continued, warming to the theme as she glanced up at his impressive height. “Me father was not above average height, nor me mother either. But I shouldn’t stay such a tiny mite of a thing.”

  “Ah, yes. Your father, the sailor,” Ramsey said. “And when do you think you’ll reach your full height, Julian?”

  She shrugged, shoving her hands into her pockets in what she hoped was a typically boyish gesture. “There’s no telling,” she said carelessly. “I haven’t yet reached manhood.”

  “No,” he said, his voice rich with amusement. “You’re not even close.”

  The house at Sutter’s Head was a sprawling affair on a spit of land jutting out into the sea. It was surrounded by a low stone wall, and sitting on that wall was Hannigan, waiting for them, a disapproving expression on his rough, reddened face.

  Juliette wasn’t the slightest bit cowed. Here was a man she trusted completely, understood, and approved of. Hannigan had one main purpose in life, and that was the well-being of his master and mistress. Once that was taken care of, his goodwill extended toward those with the same purpose, and he accounted Juliette to be one of them. He wouldn’t take too kindly to the notion that she intended to rob his master, but he’d probably put a stop to it with kind efficiency, giving her a lecture about the error of her ways before sending her off to the kitchens to fill her belly once more.

  “You look as if you’d swallowed a sour apple, old friend,” Ramsey remarked.

  “You might have told me where you were going, my lord,” Hannigan said. “Val’s been back an hour since, and we were beginning to be worried.”

  “I can take care of myself,” Ramsey said easily. “Besides, I had young Julian to keep me safe. He’s a fierce little lad—he could scare off anything that might wish to do me harm.”

  Hannigan snorted in disapproval of his levity. “That’s as may be. But next time you might let me know where you’re going. You’re new to this place, and there might be dangers …”

  “We went down to Dead Man’s Cove,” Ramsey said soothingly. “And if I survived deserts and jungles, I can probably survive a haunted shipwreck.”

  Hannigan crossed himself, turning pale. “I told you not to go there, my lord.”

  “Hannigan,” Ramsey said in a deceptively gentle voice, “I know you’ve appointed yourself my keeper, but I intend to go anywhere I damn please. I’m not concerned with ghosts. Neither is Julian. He’s not afraid of anything, are you, my boy?”

  She’d been listening to this exchange with complete fascination, and it took her a moment to realize she was being addressed. “Not a thing,” she said belatedly. “Except snakes.”

  “I don’t blame you, boy,” Hannigan said with a shudder. “I don’t like snakes either.”

  “Or haunted coves, obviously,” Ramsey remarked. “It wasn’t until we came here that I realized you were so superstitious.”

  “It pays to be careful,” Hannigan said righteously. “I’ve heard stories all my life about that cove. There’s unfinished business down there. Lost souls looking for peace.”

  “Hannigan comes from this part of the world originally,” Ramsey confided to Juliette. “He still has family all about. They’re probably the ones who filled his head full of ghost stories.”

  “I know what I know,” Hannigan said mysteriously.

  “I’m sure you do, old friend. In the meantime, I’m off to see my lady-wife.” His voice was deeply ironic. “Unless you have something of import to tell
me.”

  Hannigan glanced at Juliette, who’d made no effort to disguise her interest. “It can keep.”

  “Come along, lad,” Ramsey murmured. “You’re probably famished.”

  Actually, she’d finally eaten enough that day, but she had no intention of telling him so. She scampered after him, uneasily aware of Hannigan’s troubled gaze as it followed their progress into the dim, cool exterior of the house.

  Ramsey turned and dumped the picnic basket into Juliette’s waiting arms. She staggered for a moment beneath the weight of it, and once more was impressed by Ramsey’s agile strength. He kept hold of his sketchbook, however, something she considered a great pity. She would have liked to take a closer look at some of his drawings. Particularly the flattering, disturbing one of her.

  She’d never considered herself possessed of vanity. Perhaps it was just the enforced nature of her disguise that made her suddenly want to see her image looking lovelier than she’d ever imagined. She needed to control that impulse. That way lay disaster.

  “Go on to the kitchen, lad,” he told her. “I intend to closet myself with my wife for a good long time.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, not liking the idea at all. “Are you going to make love to her?” She stopped, horrified at herself for asking what was definitely, troublingly, on her mind.

  He gave a shout of laughter. “What an impertinent question,” he said. “And I’m certainly not about to answer it. Why do you ask?”

  “Beg pardon, sir,” she said, feeling the blush mount to her face and this time not hiding it.

  “Any more rude questions before I leave you?” he asked, still amused.

  She looked at him. He was a very handsome man, though not in the most usual way of it. She’d tended to think of handsome men as blond and broad-shouldered, with full pink lips and blue eyes and too many teeth.

  This man was lean and dark and almost menacing on occasion, with a narrow, cynical face, dangerous gray eyes, and a thin, mocking mouth that was unaccountably erotic. She’d been fascinated by him since she’d first set eyes on him, and she imagined she’d remember him long after she made her escape from England.

  “Just one,” she said, determined not to be cowed.

  “Fire away, young Julian,” he said pleasantly enough.

  “Why did Hannigan refer to you as ‘my lord’?”

  The shot hit home. Ramsey’s face darkened for a moment, and his mouth thinned. “An old joke between the two of us,” he said with no hesitation whatsoever. “Hannigan’s always been full of himself, and I used to tease him that he ought to be taking care of a royal duke at the very least. In return, he started calling me ‘your lordship’ from the time I was ten. Indeed, I imagine I was a very lordly little boy.”

  “Indeed,” she said, imagining it herself.

  “And now you can answer an impertinent question for me, young Julian,” he said, and she recognized the menace in his voice immediately.

  She refused to quail. “Of course.”

  “You can tell me who you’re running away from.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Sutter’s Head was an old building, rambling, with ells and gables and additions every which way. The outbuildings were in sorry repair; only the stable possessed a solid roof. Phelan and Valerian both had rooms on the second floor of the house, overlooking the spit of land that jutted out into the ocean, and Valerian had flung his shuttered windows wide open to enjoy the midsummer dusk.

  “Where’s your pet spaniel?” he demanded when Phelan let himself into his room without bothering to knock. “According to Hannigan, she’s been trotting at your heels since this morning. Do you think that quite wise?”

  “You’ve been wearing skirts too long, Valerian,” Phelan observed easily, heading toward the casement window that looked out over the headland. The afternoon had darkened considerably, and the wind had picked up, tossing the waves below. “You sound like a jealous mistress.”

  “Not likely,” Valerian said with a hoot of laughter. “Though you’ve got it part right. I have been wearing skirts too long.” He kicked at his long flowing gown in disgust.

  “Hard time with the bluestocking, brat?” Phelan kept the sympathy from his voice. Valerian was in no mood to tolerate it.

  “You could say so. If only she weren’t so blasted affectionate. She cuddles up to me like a damned cat, and it’s all I can do not to shove her down on the nearest piece of furniture.”

  “Women are like that with each other. They tend to reserve their physical affection for those who would tolerate it,” Phelan said.

  “You’re telling me about the ways of women?” Valerian countered with good-natured outrage. “You, the woman-hater of all time?”

  “I’m not in the slightest bit a woman-hater. I just don’t happen to be a dedicated lecher like our late father. I reserve my attentions for those who know what’s expected. And for those who understand what they’ll never get from me in a thousand years.”

  “Tell me, Phelan, what will no woman get from you in a thousand years?”

  Phelan turned from the window to survey his scapegrace of a brother. Valerian had flung himself on the bed, his long legs spread out in front of him, his sturdy calves looking ridiculous beneath the froth of skirts. “Any number of things,” he said. “Among them, love, trust, children, or a title.”

  “You never intend to marry, then?”

  “Never,” he said flatly. “I have my reasons. One of them being that I’ve yet to see anything to recommend it.” He leaned against the wall. “Have you?”

  “You’re such a cynic, Phelan. Granted, your parents never set much of an example of family warmth or marital bliss, but my mother’s happy enough with her farmer,” Valerian replied with a diffident air. “I imagine one could do as well.”

  “If you’re willing to marry a farmer. Sophie’s not for you, Val. I wish I could tell you otherwise …”

  “I know it.” Val’s smile was wry, accepting.

  “If she weren’t equipped with a fortune …”

  “And if she weren’t so wellborn,” Val supplied. “And if I weren’t a bastard, and if I weren’t under suspicion of murder, and if I weren’t wearing skirts … That’s a prodigious amount of ‘ifs,’ brother mine. Too many for me to overcome.”

  “So you’re going to do the wise thing? Keep away from temptation?” Phelan asked, knowing the answer full well. “Come with me to the Continent, where you’ll be safe until I can figure a way out of this mess.”

  “I’m going to do exactly what you would under the circumstances,” Val replied. “I’m going riding with her tomorrow morning.”

  “Val, Val,” his brother said with mock despair. “Will you never learn?”

  “I doubt it.” Valerian surged off the bed and strode around the room. “What have you learned about the new member of our household? Any idea why she’s dressed as a boy?”

  “I asked her point-blank who she was running from. Her response was innocent shock. I doubt I’ll get a truthful answer from her until I demand it. And I’m not ready to demand it.”

  “And why not? At least one of us ought to be having a good time.”

  “We’re not here for a good time.”

  “That relieves my mind,” Val said. “I was beginning to wonder.” He paused at one of the windows, staring out past Phelan. “Why are we here? And don’t start trying to get me to agree to leave the country. I’m sick of running. This is as far as I go. But you never explained. Why the hell are we in Hampton Regis? Simply on Hannigan’s say-so? Why didn’t we stay closer to home, where we might be doing something instead of just sitting around on our bums?”

  “If you think I’m enjoying this enforced wait,” Phelan said silkily, “then you greatly mistake the matter. I hauled you away from Yorkshire before my demented mother and your hot temper could get you hanged, and we were damned lucky Hannigan knew of a place remote enough to suit. If it were up to me, I’d be long gone from this country.”


  “Then go!” Valerian shot back. “I’ve told you, I can take care of myself. I don’t need you protecting me!”

  “Like hell.” Phelan controlled his temper with an effort. “If you refuse to leave England, then at least Hampton Regis has several advantages, not counting your amatory interests. For one thing, it’s right on the coast. Once you see reason, we can leave for France on the next tide. For another, Hannigan’s family absolutely haunts this area of the country. We may never see them, but they’re around, looking after us. If anyone comes seeking Valerian Romney, we’ll hear about it in time to escape. And then it’s off to the Continent and a life of unbridled merriment,” he concluded sourly.

  “Be still, my heart,” Valerian said. “Will you take your little serving lad with us if we have to decamp?”

  “No.”

  “No? You amaze me, Phelan. Why not?”

  “Because, like your precious bluestocking, the child is innocent. I have no idea why she’s embarked on this absurd masquerade, but the fact remains that she doesn’t need to be seduced and abandoned.”

  “You don’t need to abandon her, Phelan,” Val said softly.

  “She’ll stay behind. I’ll have Hannigan’s people look after her, if need be. But for the time being, I’ll stay put. Unwillingly, I might add. I suppose we’re safe enough out here, a country squire and his wife.” Phelan’s grin was wry. “You can torment yourself with your little bluestocking, I’ll torment myself with the serving lad. And we’ll hope no one decides to come after us.”

  “Who do you think really killed him, Phelan?”

  It was the one question he didn’t want to answer. “A stray thief,” he said firmly. “A deranged servant.”

  “Not a servant,” Val said. “And not a thief.”

  Their eyes, so much alike, met for a long, pregnant moment of understanding. “We may be wrong,” Phelan said eventually.

  “Even if we aren’t, you know I won’t let you do anything about it,” Val replied. “I’ve caused her enough harm …”