by Anne Stuart
“I’ll pass on your offer,” he said wryly. “Go to bed.”
“It’s early.”
“Go to bed,” he snapped, “or I’ll take you there.”
She was wise enough to recognize a reprieve when she heard it. She skirted around him, scampering from the stable without a backward glance.
He watched her go, wondering idly whether she’d try to leave tonight or wait a few days. He’d have to mention it to Hannigan, though his bullying henchman was probably already aware of the situation.
She wouldn’t get far, he had no doubt of that. And he expected she’d probably wait a day or two, thinking she’d lull his suspicions.
She had a lot to learn about him. It was going to be a mixed pleasure, teaching her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Damn him, damn him, damn him,” Juliette muttered beneath her breath when she finally reached the privacy of her room. “Damn him all to bloody hell.” She used the rich English curses with a certain amount of pleasure. Her father had taught her those, and even worse ones, but she avoided the more intense ones. Mark-David had used those words to her, and she didn’t want to think about them in context with the man who saw far too much.
She could curse in many languages: French, Italian, Greek, Arabic, and Spanish; but there was nothing like some of the good old Anglo-Saxon phrases to vent one’s spleen.
She flung herself down on her narrow bed, staring out the window to the sea and the evening sky beyond. The room was small and simply furnished, but it was hers, something that should have tipped her off. In a household such as this, she would never have been given the luxury of a private room.
He was right: she’d been foolishly blind, hoping no one would see through her disguise. She’d grown complacent, arrogant in her belief that she could fool everyone. No one had relieved himself in front of her; no one had commented on her myriad trips to the necessary, far too many for a boy. No one had stripped off his clothes in front of her, though Ramsey had threatened. He’d done it on purpose, waiting for her reaction. She hadn’t given it to him, but that still hadn’t managed to allay his suspicions. Damn him, damn him, damn him.
She wouldn’t run right now. He’d be watching; he’d probably be expecting her to make a break for it. He knew her too well, a fact which alarmed her even more than his unmasking her. She didn’t like any man seeing her so clearly.
She’d wait a couple of days. He wouldn’t touch her again—after all, he had a glorious-looking wife, and Juliette knew perfectly well that she herself was small and dark and plain. Lemur had made it more than clear that she was lacking everything needed for a woman, a fact she rejoiced in.
She’d be safe, if she bided her time. She still had to have money if she was to book passage to the Continent, and if Ramsey had seen through her so easily, others might as well. Perhaps she should reconsider her strategy. She’d grown adept at a working-class accent. Maybe she could book passage as a seamstress or a lady’s maid, traveling to new employment.
Even to her hopeful frame of mind, that didn’t sound terribly likely. A woman alone on a ship, particularly the kind of ship she’d be able to afford, could run into all sorts of danger, the kind of danger that might make Mark-David Lemur seem welcome by comparison. She couldn’t quite imagine it, but anything was possible.
She rose from the narrow bed and walked to the window, staring out past the overgrown gardens to the sea beyond. The night air was filled with the scent of roses mingling with the salt smell of the ocean, and she leaned against the open shutter and sighed. She should run. She should stop making excuses to herself about lulling Ramsey’s suspicions, because if she simply faced the truth, she’d know that she didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want to leave this place, where she’d found the first measure of comfort and safety she’d known since her father had died.
And for some illogical, irrational reason, she didn’t want to leave the greatest threat she’d ever known, the man who’d penetrated her disguise with such devastating ease. The man whose touch had terrified and disgusted her, as every man’s had, but whose touch had also managed to spark strange longings inside her that she refused to put a name to.
She moved away from the window resolutely, heading for her bed. Lifting the thin mattress, she withdrew all her meager belongings. The thin lace undergarments, made for a lady. The change of linen.
Juliette sat back on her heels, fury and panic whipping through her. The diamond-and-pearl earbobs were gone.
“Interesting,” Phelan murmured, glancing at the jewelry Hannigan had placed on the desk. “Not the sort of thing our little stableboy would be likely to have. Did you discover anything else of interest?”
Hannigan shrugged. “She came tearing back a bit too quickly. I can tell you she wears ladies’ undergarments beneath the boys’ clothes. High quality they were, too.”
“Now why don’t I like the thought of you pawing through her underclothes?” Phelan inquired in a deceptively tranquil voice.
Hannigan grinned. “I think you know the answer to that better than I do, whether or not you care to admit it. You want me to lock her in? She might decide that now’s a good time to run away.”
“She’s an enterprising girl—she’d probably use the window,” Phelan said. “I think I’ll simply remove her clothes. She’s not likely to wander about without them. Despite all outward appearances, she does have some sense.”
“You want me to take care of it?”
Phelan knew Hannigan was teasing him, waiting for his annoyed reaction. “Don’t push me. If anyone’s going to be traipsing around her bedroom, it will be me.”
“I thought you might see it that way,” Hannigan said smugly. “I’ll leave first thing in the morning.”
Phelan almost called him back. That surge of irrational jealousy troubled him. He’d made it his intention never to care too deeply about a woman. As long as he didn’t allow himself to get too close, one was as good as another, as long as she knew how he played the game. Years ago he’d given up any interest in a family, a wife, a normal life. His heritage was far too clouded, too unstable ever to consider passing on. As long as he kept his emotions and desires in check, he didn’t need to worry.
Juliette was threatening that hard-won self-control. The thought of Hannigan touching her lacy undergarments sent a shaft of anger through him. The thought of entering her bedroom, where she doubtless lay sleeping, made his gut twist with something that should have been simple, uncomplicated lust.
But it wasn’t. Lust was direct, easily remedied, if not with one woman, then with another. If he gave in to his irrational longing for her, he’d be on his way to disaster. He couldn’t allow himself to care.
He waited until after midnight, when the sounds of the house and its inhabitants had quieted. She’d locked her door, probably barred it as well. Foolish child. Nothing would keep him out if he decided he wanted to get in.
But he wasn’t in the mood for violence. He walked outside, skirting the house, the moonlight leading the way. Her ground-floor window looked out over the ocean. It was shuttered against the night air, but a simple push opened it.
She lay stretched out on the bed, a light cover thrown over her. A chair was pushed up against the door as added protection, and her clothes lay across the chair.
It was a simple enough matter to vault silently through the window, landing on his bare feet in the darkness. He scooped up her clothes, turned to leave, and then paused, giving in to temptation.
She was lying on her stomach, and he could see the narrow, graceful line of her back. Her fist was by her mouth, and he could see the streaks of dried tears on her cheek.
It shocked him. Juliette wasn’t the sort of woman who would give way to the weakness of tears. But alone in her room, faced with the loss of her earrings and her disguise, she’d given in.
He reached out a hand to smooth her hair away from her face, then stopped himself. If he touched her, he’d kiss her. If he kissed her while she lay n
aked in the bed, then he would make love to her. And if he made love to her, he’d have to send her away. Before he made the fatal mistake of caring for her.
He didn’t want to send her away. Not without knowing the answers to the secrets she kept. He had to content himself with one last, longing look. Then he slipped through the window again, her clothes over his arm. They smelled of roses, they smelled of the sea, they smelled of her. He stood in the moonlit garden and put his face against the rough material, drinking in her scent. And then he shook himself.
Moon madness. He was getting as daft as Valerian over his silly bluestocking. Not as daft as his mother.
No, not that. Not yet.
That particular curse still awaited him.
“I’m going for a ride,” Valerian announced the next morning.
Phelan looked up from the breakfast table, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed his brother. Valerian hadn’t bothered with his disguise—he was dressed simply in breeches and a plain white shirt, his golden-blond hair tied back behind his handsome face. He made a lovely woman, Phelan thought dispassionately. He made an even more handsome man.
“Do you think that’s wise?” he said mildly, sipping his coffee. Dulcie was a whiz at coffee—she’d perfected the Arabian style he preferred, though Valerian still insisted he got the grounds in his teeth. “Despite our fears, our little Juliette doesn’t yet realize our secret. It might do us well to keep her in the dark.”
“Our little Juliette?” Valerian echoed, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Does that mean you’re willing to share?”
“Don’t try my patience, Val,” Phelan said, ignoring his instinctive anger. He’d never been jealous of a female before, and certainly not with his own brother. He was jealous now. “She offered to be your lady’s maid.”
“Did she, now? I might enjoy that.” Val threw himself into a chair, watching to see how Phelan would react.
Phelan didn’t gratify him. “I don’t think she would. She’s not overfond of men.”
Val’s good humor remained intact. “I expect you’ll manage to change her mind.”
“Perhaps. If I decide to bother.”
“Let me know if you’re not interested …”
“Enough!” Phelan thundered, loud enough for the cups to rattle in their saucers, no longer making any effort to disguise his possessiveness. “I thought I made myself clear.”
“You have, brother mine. Crystal clear,” Val said cheerfully. “It simply amuses me to see you so churlish. I’m not used to having women mean anything to you other than a few hours of entertainment.”
“Juliette doesn’t mean anything more to me,” Phelan said flatly.
“No? Then why aren’t you willing to share?”
“Valerian …”
“Pax, brother mine,” Val said, holding up his hands in a gesture of peace. “I’m only teasing. She can’t hold a candle to my bluestocking, as far as I’m concerned. I’ll simply have to resign myself to a stretch of celibacy.”
“You could always seduce Neville Pinworth,” Phelan suggested lazily.
“Wretch!” Valerian shuddered. “Where is your little heroine at the moment?”
“Still in her room, where she’ll stay for the next few hours.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I took her clothes.”
Valerian let out an admiring whistle. “What else did you take while you were at it?” he said with a leer.
“She was asleep, brat. She didn’t even know I was there. If I decide to have her, I’ll do it when she’s fully conscious.”
“If?” Valerian’s blond eyebrows arched.
Phelan ignored him. “She also came possessed of a magnificent set of diamond-and-pearl earbobs. I’m sending Hannigan off with them to see if he can discover anything about them. The obvious explanation is that she stole them, and that’s why she’s running, but I don’t think so. She doesn’t strike me as a thief.”
“Even though you were convinced she was planning to strip your pockets and take off?”
“That’s a different matter. She hates me. She considers me fair game.” Phelan leaned back in his chair, contemplating his coffee. “I think the earrings are hers, and I think they have a history. Stones that size are usually recognizable, and Hannigan should be able to provide the answers.”
Valerian reached over and took a brioche. Dulcie had also managed to master French pastry, estimable woman that she was. “And why should Hannigan be able to do that?” he asked. “What nefarious talents has a gentleman’s gentleman picked up during his travels with you? Not that Hannigan has ever seemed remotely like your average gentleman’s gentleman.”
“I think he was always possessed of those talents,” Phelan said wryly. “And I don’t inquire too closely, as long as the job gets done. Suffice it to say he numbers among his vast acquaintance certain individuals who would be knowledgeable about famous diamonds and about recent thefts.”
“You’re a loyal employer.”
“Hannigan has been with us since before I was born. You know that as well as I do,” Phelan said simply. “He would die for us. You or me,” he added.
“I believe he would. Let us hope he won’t be called upon to do so.” Valerian rose, stretching. “I’m off.”
“Have a care. This is a deserted bit of land, and it’s still early enough, but it wouldn’t do to have any witnesses to your riding about. In truth we don’t look so alike that any observers would be sure you’re me.”
“Such a thoughtful, prosaic old bore,” Valerian teased.
“I wouldn’t like to lose you.”
“You’re a better brother than I deserve,” Valerian said with sudden seriousness.
“True enough. You still can’t have Juliette,” his brother retorted, defusing the sudden sentiment. “Be off with you. The sooner you go riding, the sooner you’ll be safely back in skirts.”
“Don’t remind me.” He groaned. “Why we ever embarked on this hellish masquerade is beyond me.”
“If it was good enough for Bonnie Prince Charlie, brat, then it’s good enough for you.” Phelan kept the sympathy from his voice. Indeed, he could imagine only too easily the frustration Valerian must be feeling, an energetic, woman-loving man trapped in skirts. While going for bruising rides along the strand represented a certain risk, without those rides Valerian might very well explode. “Do me a favor. Wear a hat. That way people might indeed mistake you for me.”
“A hat wouldn’t stay on, not at the pace I’m intending to set,” Val said. “They’ll just assume that dainty Mrs. Ramsey is a hoyden after all, who rides astride, wearing men’s breeches.”
“I doubt it. You ride like a man.”
“Thank God for that much. I was afraid I was starting to mince. I wouldn’t want to end up another Sir Neville.”
“No chance of that. Not as long as you’re mooning after the bluestocking.”
“Ah, Sophie,” Valerian said soulfully. “She’ll be the death of me yet.”
“Let’s hope not, Val. Let’s sincerely hope not.”
Hannigan appeared at the door, silent as always. Phelan was used to his ways, having traveled to the far ends of the earth with him over the past ten years, both in the army and on his own, but Valerian still jumped nervously.
“I’m off, then,” Hannigan announced. “I left the clothes outside her door, but she refused to open it. Told me to go about my business in no uncertain terms.”
“Swore at you, did she?” Val asked in amusement.
“In several languages.”
“You’re going to have your hands full with that one,” Valerian said. “Thank God.”
“Why ‘thank God’?” Phelan demanded. “Why should you wish me ill?”
“I’d wish for anything to alleviate the boredom. As long as she keeps you entertained, you won’t keep trying to make me run for it. Besides, I imagine you’ll be more than able to hold your own with a little bit of a thing like her.”
&nbs
p; “I appreciate your confidence, brother mine,” Phelan said wryly. “I sincerely hope it’s not misplaced.”
He bided his time, finishing his breakfast in peace after Hannigan and his brother left. It was a bright summer’s day, almost peaceful, and he allowed himself a few moments to savor it before strolling through the kitchen to the back rooms. Her door was at the end of the hallway, and the black clothes still lay piled neatly outside it.
He rapped on the door. “Your clothes await you, fair Juliette. You have five minutes to get dressed.”
“Go to hell.”
The voice was muffled and furious, but there was no trace of tears, he thought with satisfaction. She wasn’t the sort to cry with frustration. She didn’t strike him as the sort to cry at all. He detested tears in women. The ones he’d seen last night must have been a rare occurrence.
“Five minutes,” he said again, “or I’ll come in and dress you myself. I might enjoy that, but I doubt you would.”
Her reply was in Arabic, and so obscene that he actually found himself shocked as well as amused.
“You’re right,” he replied in the same language. “My father was a rutting donkey, but I doubt he feasted on pig droppings. And as far as I know, my mother never consorted with camels.”
The shocked silence from beyond the door was answer enough. “Five minutes,” he said again, and walked away, whistling.
He spoke Arabic. Better than she did. All she could do was repeat curses she’d learned by rote, but he could actually converse in the language. Why would a country gentleman know Arabic?
She waited, listening carefully as the sound of his footsteps died away, before she went to the door. She’d wedged the chair under the knob, but she had little doubt he could break it down if he decided to. And she had little doubt that five minutes was all she was allotted.
She was growing tired of cursing. It relieved only a certain amount of her frustration, and then it lost its potency. She wasn’t going to accomplish a thing as long as she stayed in her room and fumed.
She counted to sixty, then moved the chair, opening the door cautiously, the thin wool blanket wrapped around her. The clothes were piled neatly on the floor, and she grabbed them, slamming the door behind her.
