Shadow Dance

by Anne Stuart

  The landlord let out a resigned sigh. “Very well,” he said. “I’ve already had the table laid for you two ladies. If you go on into the taproom, I’ll bring you some rum punch. But it’s very strong, I warn you.”

  “We’re very strong ladies, aren’t we, Val?” Sophie said mischievously, tucking her arm through Val’s.

  “We do our best,” he said, savoring the feel, the scent, of her.

  “Very well,” the man said again. “And I’ll tell the gentleman not to intrude on the taproom. Not that he would. Likes his privacy, I can tell, and he’s not a man who’d offer a lady an insult.”

  “Let us sincerely hope not,” Val drawled.

  “No, I could tell the moment I saw him,” the innkeeper said firmly. “Mr. Lemur would never harm a lady.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Phelan Romney was in an exceedingly bad mood. Not only had Valerian failed to return that evening, he’d disappeared with the de Quinceys’ virginal daughter, Sophie. While the redoubtable Mrs. de Quincey had no lack of faith in Val’s ability to watch over her little hatchling, Phelan was feeling far from sanguine.

  He knew his brother very well, knew that despite his reckless, lighthearted attitude, his masquerade was slowly driving him crazy.

  And he knew his brother was in love. An odd admission for a man like Phelan, a man who didn’t believe in love, but he couldn’t ignore the fact. Valerian loved women, and treated them all with the same amount of tenderness and care. But one had only to see his face when he said Sophie’s name to know the man was completely moonstruck.

  And Phelan, who longed to ride to his younger brother’s rescue and right any wrongs, much as he had when they were younger, was helpless. At the worst, Valerian was a fugitive from justice who had lied to his beloved, an exile from his native county with the ugly charge of patricide hanging over his head.

  At best, he was a landless bastard, he who loved the land so much, whose existence had driven a well-bred lady to butcher her own husband.

  Either way, it wasn’t a pretty notion.

  And he could hardly blame Valerian for following his reckless desires when he himself wouldn’t even listen to his own advice. He’d tried, of course, refusing to admit he didn’t have full control of his urges.

  He’d tried to distract himself with useless errands. He’d decided to explore, and he’d ridden in search of Hannigan’s mysterious family, only to find the tiny village of Hampton Parva peopled solely with Hannigans and no one else. He’d been welcomed, warily, and not a single one of his questions had been answered. Each one was directed back to Hannigan himself, and when Phelan rode back home to discover Valerian missing in the sudden storm, his mood was none too pretty.

  He should have taken a page from Valerian’s book and retired to his bedroom with a couple of bottles of wine and his own dark thoughts. He should have kept as far away from Juliette MacGowan Lemur as he could. At least until she was ready to tell him the truth.

  But he wasn’t sure that he could. He was a man who prided himself on his self-control, on his imperviousness to the vagaries of most human weaknesses. But when all was said and done, he was proving to have as little willpower as his impetuous younger brother. And, trapped alone in a storm-swept house on a desolate strip of land, he had all he could do to keep from taking a taste of danger. Just a sip, mind you. Of Juliette’s soft, defiant mouth.

  “Master wants you,” Hannigan announced tersely, poking his head inside the kitchen.

  Dulcie looked up from the stove. “I’ll be right there,” she said, putting down her ladle.

  “Not you, woman. The lass there.”

  Juliette lifted her head, trying to ignore the little shiver of alarm that swept through her. It had been a relatively peaceful, almost indolent day, spent in the kitchens helping Dulcie. She’d expected it to end the same way, without having to endure the unsettling presence of the master of the house.

  She rose, reaching for her jacket. “No need for that, lass,” Hannigan said. “He wants you to serve dinner. You’ll do fine as you are.”

  “Serve him dinner?” Dulcie echoed, scandalized. “What does he think she is? I’ve a notion to teach him his manners.”

  “He thinks she’s a servant,” Hannigan said sternly. “Which, at this moment, she is. Until she tells him otherwise. Come along with you, lass.”

  Juliette hesitated. “Who else is there?”

  Hannigan’s mouth curved in a wry smile. “You’ll need to learn that such questions are none of a good servant’s business,” he said. “As a matter of fact, the master dines alone tonight.”

  “Then why does he need someone to serve him?” she countered.

  “Ask him yourself, if you dare,” Hannigan suggested.

  It was probably just another salvo in the battle waging between them. She refused to let it reach her. She would serve his dinner with calm efficiency. And she’d resist the impulse to fling the plate at his head.

  The formal dining room at Sutter’s Head was small, elegant, and candlelit. Phelan sat at one end of the table, holding a glass of wine in one long-fingered, graceful hand, and his dark hair was rumpled over his high forehead. He was wearing dark breeches and a white shirt open at the neck, informal wear for a private evening at home. She made her way carefully down the length of the room, bearing the tray in her hands, and she was acutely aware of his eyes on her, watching her every movement.

  She worked with calm competence, serving the delicious dinner Dulcie had made, her movements deft and precise as she opened the second bottle of wine, shook out the heavy linen napkin and draped it in his lap, brushed an imaginary crumb off the table.

  “Was there anything else, sir?” she asked in a deferential tone that was only faintly mocking.

  He didn’t bother to glance up at her, concentrating instead on the dinner. “Sit down,” he said shortly.

  “I’d rather return to the kitchen, sir.”

  “Sit down.”

  Juliette sat. He began to eat, slowly, with a complete lack of self-consciousness that in another time Juliette might have found admirable. She hated having people watch her when she ate—if there were servants in the room, she usually dismissed them. She stared stonily ahead, only allowing herself an occasional glance in his direction, waiting for him to speak to her. He ate as he did everything, with a kind of offhand, negligent grace.

  “I’m trying to decide what to do with you,” he said, and it took her a moment to realize he’d even spoken.

  “You don’t need to do a thing with me. You can return my earbobs and let me leave. Surely that would be the prudent course.”

  “I have little interest in prudence.” He leaned back in his chair and looked at her, and she realized he’d been drinking more heavily than usual. Not enough so that it really showed, just enough to put a dangerous glitter in his eyes.

  A moment or two passed before she realized he had snapped his fingers in her direction. “Yes, sir?”

  “You may refill my wine.”

  The wine bottle was next to his hand. Gritting her teeth, she rose from her seat, reaching for the bottle. In her temper she spilled a drop, and Phelan shook his head in disapproval. “You need experience, young Julian, if you’re to continue as a servant,” he murmured. “Perhaps I’ll have you serve all my meals. After all, if you intend to make a career of this, you’d best learn a certain amount of proficiency. It’s the least I can do to help you.”

  “I’m very proficient,” she said between her teeth.

  “And you need to remember not to talk back to your betters,” he drawled, obviously enjoying himself.

  “I’ll endeavor to do so, sir,” she said. “If ever I’m in the presence of one.” She started to move away, but his hand shot out and caught her wrist.

  “You really have no idea how very dangerous your behavior is, do you?” His voice was silken.

  She looked down at him, at the hand on her wrist. She was tanned from her years beneath the blazing tropical
sun, but his skin was just as burnished. Sprawled there in his loose white shirt, he looked like no English gentleman. He looked like a pirate, a marauder, a very threatening man indeed. So why did she persist in thinking he could save her from Lemur?

  “Why is it dangerous?” she asked, her voice deceptively steady. Even though he held her, there was no pain in her wrist. Instead, his thumb was stroking the skin, absently. She wondered what would happen if she tried to pull away. She wondered why she wasn’t interested in trying.

  “Because I’m a man,” he said. “I’ve been celibate for longer than I’ve ever been since I turned sixteen, and I’m getting to the point where anything would attract me. Including a child who can’t decide if she’s a boy or a girl.”

  She did jerk her hand away then, and he let her go, surveying her out of assessing eyes. “I’m going to bed,” she said, stalking toward the door.

  “You’re my servant.” His voice followed her, lightly mocking. “At least for the time being. And I haven’t dismissed you.”

  “Go to hell,” she said succinctly. And slammed the door behind her. And the sound of his laughter echoed down the hall after her.

  She went straight to her room, locking the door behind her. It was hot and stifling inside, but the rain was coming down so heavily she didn’t dare open the window. She sat there, alone in the darkness, and wondered what in God’s name was going to become of her.

  She must have slept. When she awoke the house was silent, only the noise of the rain against the window disturbing the unearthly quiet. She was hot, suffocating, trapped in that room, in those clothes, in a life that was not of her own choosing. Silently she unlocked the door and stepped into the deserted hallway.

  The kitchen was still and dark. Hannigan and Dulcie must have gone off to their rooms in the cozy little outbuilding by the stable. She could only hope Valerian had finally made it home through the storm. Otherwise she was alone in the house with a man she found far too disturbing.

  She opened the kitchen door a crack, feeling the swirl of rain and wind slap against her face. It felt wonderful, cool and harsh and cleansing. Without a moment’s hesitation she slipped outside, into the deluge, closing the door behind her.

  She was instantly soaked to the skin, her white shirt plastered against her body. She could barely see two feet in front of her, and the wind whipped her hair into her face. If she had any sense at all, she’d turn and run back to her room. But she was feeling far from sensible.

  The wildness in the storm called to a wildness in her heart, and she had to answer. She’d left her shoes in her room, and she took off through the flooded courtyard, zigzagging around the house to the gardens. She glanced back at the house, but she could see nothing but darkness through the driving rain. Phelan must have retired long ago, lulled to sleep by the rain and the wine. He wouldn’t disturb her this night.

  She should try once more to run. No one would notice she’d gone until the morning, if then, and the rain would wipe any trace of her away with the dawn. If she had any sense at all, she would take this chance while she had it. She might not get another opportunity.

  His arguments had been persuasive. She’d been no match for Lemur herself. Perhaps Phelan could protect her. But would he? Or would he sell her for the price of the diamond-and-pearl earbobs, and more besides?

  She didn’t trust him. She didn’t trust any man. It was past time she remembered that fact.

  She would need her shoes, her clothes, and money. She would need every last moment she could steal. And she could hesitate no longer.

  She knew where he kept his money. Indeed, he’d made no effort to hide it from her. There was a stack of gold coins and paper in the top drawer of his desk. She wouldn’t take all of it. He’d be more likely to realize she was missing if he came downstairs and found his desk pilfered. Besides, Valerian might need that money even more than she did, and he had been kind to her. Unlike his mocking, cynical older brother.

  She moved silently back through the house, pausing in her room to gather up her shoes and clothing before heading down the hallway to the library. A lamp was burning low on the hall table, and she picked it up, moving into the library. It provided minimal illumination, but she headed toward the desk unerringly.

  It was unlocked. Setting the lamp down, she reached for the money, prepared to tuck most of it inside her shirt and start back out into the rain, when she thought better of it.

  Phelan’s watch lay on the desk. It was gold, and probably worth a great deal, and she’d seen him hold it in his hand more than once. She reached out to touch it, telling herself she ought to take it in payment for her missing earbobs. It felt warm to her damp hands, and she found she was caressing it, as a woman might touch the skin of a lover.

  The room smelled of rain, of leather, of smoke, and wine. It reminded her of things she couldn’t have, things she didn’t want to have. She needed to run, she reminded herself desperately, picking up the watch.

  It felt alive to her, part of him. The steady tick was like a heartbeat, the bright gold was warm in her hands, and she knew she couldn’t steal it. Couldn’t steal his money. Couldn’t run, no matter how much she knew she should.

  She replaced the watch carefully. She slid the desk drawer silently shut, the money safe within. And then she turned to leave.

  “That was a wise decision on your part,” Phelan Romney said, and Juliette let out a muffled shriek of panic, dropping her shoes and clothing on the floor. The coins that Mowbray had handed her spilled through the kerchief, rolling onto the floor with a noisy clatter.

  He was sitting in the winged armchair in the dark, watching her. The bottle on the table next to him was empty, and there was a dark, ominous glitter in his eyes.

  “I didn’t know you were there,” she said stupidly.

  “Of course you didn’t. You’re not adept at stealth, fair Juliette. I heard you coming a mile away, and I simply extinguished the lamp. I wanted to see what you were going to do. You surprised me.”

  “You were surprised that I decided to run?”

  He shook his head, rising slowly, lazily, with a grace that barely showed the amount of wine he’d drunk that night. “Surprised that you changed your mind.”

  “I haven’t changed my mind about running. I just decided not to rob you. You told me you’d beat me if I did, and I decided you were ruthless enough to do just that.”

  “Of course you did,” he said, moving slowly across the room. During the hot, muggy night he’d unfastened his shirt, and it hung loosely around his bronzed torso. She thought absently of Valerian’s shaved chest, and a little frisson of emotion ran through her, one she refused to examine. “I’ve been such a damned brute so far, haven’t I?” he said.

  She almost agreed, until she realized that once more he was being ironic. He probably thought he’d been the soul of restraint. And perhaps, in comparison, he had been. She only knew that each time he looked at her, she reacted as strongly as if he’d put his hands on her.

  “You can keep the earbobs,” she said nervously, taking a step backward, prepared to run.

  “Noble of you. I don’t care for them, though.”

  “Give them to Valerian. They’ll look charming on him.”

  His mouth curved in a grin, and Juliette could no more deny her reaction than she could fly to the moon. That was the reason she had to run; she knew it full well. Not from the harm he might do, but from his rare, devastating smile.

  “I’d rather see them on you,” he said.

  “They don’t suit me.”

  “The diamond-and-pearl earbobs,” he said in a dreamy voice that made her realize how very drunk he really was. “And nothing else.” And he reached for her.

  She almost went to him. For one brief, mad moment she swayed toward him, wanting the dangerous comfort of his arms, his body against hers. But the sudden streak and fizzle of lightning saved her, followed almost immediately by a crack of thunder.

  She ran, barefoot, half ma
d with fear and longing, out into the stormy night in wild disregard of nature’s fury. He caught her by the edge of the garden, the rain pouring down on them, soaking them. “I’m getting damned tired,” he said in a thick voice, “of having you run away.”

  She was no match for his strength. She didn’t wish to be. She went into his arms this time, hidden within the curtain of rain, and tilted her face up to his. Letting the rain pour down on her, letting his kisses pour down on her, and she slid her arms around his waist beneath the damp, flapping white shirt, the violence of the storm and her own wild, confused feelings sweeping her away.

  His hands were rough as he held her. His mouth was hard, demanding, and when he pushed her down into the wet grass she went, no longer fighting it. His body covered hers, his mouth settled across hers, and the rain surrounding them was a benediction and a torture.

  He reached between them and yanked at her shirt and the buttons popped, the wet material ripped, and she was bared to the waist. The cool dampness of the air was a shock against her skin; the hot dampness of his mouth was even more astonishing. Pushing her shoulders back into the drenched earth, he put his mouth over her breast, teasing the hard peak with his tongue, the hot, sucking pressure sending streaks of desire spearing through her body, centering between her legs. She felt panic sweep through her, a dark fear that was so very different from the terror of her nights with Lemur. This wasn’t the fear of a man’s cruelty, the fear of pain. It was the fear of her own weakness, and of longing.

  His hand slid down between her legs, cupping her through the wet material of her breeches, and the heel of his palm rubbed against her, slowly, enticingly, so that her hips arched against him, seemingly out of instinct.

  He lifted his head, and the cold night air on her breast made her shiver. He looked down at her, a dark, searching expression on his face, and she closed her eyes, letting the rain pelt her cheeks, her eyelids, afraid to let him look too closely.

  He was resting against her hips, and she could feel the hard ridge of flesh pressing against her. She waited, holding herself still for his next move, prepared for the worst.