A Warriner to Rescue Her

by Virginia Heath

  Once all of the lights were extinguished, Cassie took the stairs slowly with a single candle in her hand and her strained nerves bouncing all over the place. She pushed open her bedchamber door and immediately saw him stretched out on her bed, filling the narrow mattress with his big body. A pertinent reminder he was all male. Gloriously male and scarcely a few feet away from her father across the hall. He rolled on to his side and appeared immensely relieved to see her. When he smiled her mouth dried. The collar of his shirt was open, displaying a tantalising V of skin she had not seen before, and his dark hair was rumpled from her pillow. A pillow she would have to sleep on when he was gone. Cassie doubted she would ever wash that particular pillowcase again.

  He waited until she closed the door before whispering, ‘Is he asleep?’

  Cassie shook her head. ‘He usually reads for an hour or so.’

  ‘Then I suppose you are stuck with me for an hour.’

  Her lips tingled. ‘I suppose so.’ She was stood awkwardly in the middle of the floor, clutching the candlestick for all it was worth, wondering what it would be like to stretch out next to him on that mattress. Like a lover. He mistook her posture as wariness and shuffled to sit.

  ‘Fear not, Cassie. Your virtue is safe with me.’ More was the pity. As she was undoubtedly her mother’s daughter she might easily be convinced to part with it where he was concerned. He patted the mattress next to him. ‘You might as well sit.’

  She did. Reluctantly. Instantly feeling the heat emanating from his body just a few inches away from hers. Even though all disappointingly proper, it was an oddly intimate position to be in. Several painful minutes ticked by in necessary silence, reminding her of how potentially dire their current situation was. Too close for comfort, they listened to the sounds of her father readying himself for bed, neither of them daring to so much as breathe loudly in case it alerted him to Jamie’s presence.

  If he was found here, then she genuinely feared her father’s reaction. Aside from the fact he now loathed the Warriner family unjustly, he had a particular axe to grind with Jamie and venomously hated him above all of the others. It also did not bear thinking about the way he would respond to finding a man in her room. It would confirm all of his worst fears and suspicions. Her mother was a disgrace in his eyes and Cassie was already almost one although she had never done anything to deserve the comparison. Briefly kissing two scoundrels in two separate churchyards hardly counted. Having experienced a proper kiss with Jamie, she now realised how innocently chaste the previous two had actually been.

  Her only foray into proper wanton abandon had been with the man currently sat next to her. If she were being honest with herself, even here, with her father across the hallway, if Jamie decided he had made a mistake earlier and really needed to kiss her again she would happily fall into his arms and let him.

  * * *

  The silence next door had stretched for almost five minutes, suggesting her ill-tempered father was finally ensconced in his bed, when Jamie shifted his position to lean a little nearer.

  ‘I feel I owe you another grovelling apology for putting you in this predicament, Cassie. I can see now my coming here was a dreadful idea.’ He was speaking close to her ear, something which apparently had the power to scramble her wits and make her forget that her father was so close and that she was potentially in the worst trouble of her life.

  ‘So long as my father remains ignorant of your presence, it doesn’t matter. Fortunately, as I am sure you heard, he rarely notices me.’

  ‘I preferred it when my own father was oblivious of my existence. Things were always easier when he left me alone. Does your father’s lack of interest bother you?’

  If only he knew. ‘It used to bother me a great deal. Now I find it gives me certain freedoms which would otherwise be denied me. Like riding every afternoon for hours on end unchaperoned.’ This conversation was dangerous because she desperately wanted to confide in him about the awful times her father did notice her. Jamie seemed to understand her situation, almost as if he empathised. He was very open about his own father’s many shortcomings, even sharing the fact the man was violent towards his sons. Cassie knew if anyone would know what she was going through, it would be Jamie. ‘My father can...’

  They both stilled at the sound of footsteps across the hall. Her father was rummaging for something in a drawer. His shoeless feet padded back towards his bed, the bedframe creaked slightly as he obviously lowered himself into it. Jamie crept towards the door, opened it a crack and then shook his head as he closed it again.

  ‘The light is still on.’ In two, stealthy strides he was back at the bed and once again sat directly next to her. ‘I am afraid you are stuck with me a little bit longer.’

  For several seconds they were both so quiet the only thing she could hear was the soft sound of his breathing. Sitting here like this, so close to him and yet not close enough, was unsettling and exciting. Cassie needed to do something to take her mind off such thoughts and, since her own confession had been cut off, she was not entirely sure she should be that open about her situation just yet, just in case Jamie tried to come to her aid and inadvertently made her situation worse—something which would be very difficult indeed when she only had a pitiful stash of farthings in her wardrobe and nowhere near enough to be in a position to leave. ‘Tell me about your father, Jamie.’

  ‘He was a nasty piece of work and a tyrant to all four of us boys, but he used to single me out especially. Painting, in his opinion, was something only girls did. Especially the sort of painting I do. My father was keen for me to grow into a proper man. I think he genuinely thought if he beat me hard enough then he could make it go away.’

  ‘Then I can only assume he failed in his endeavour, seeing that you still paint. And quite beautifully.’

  ‘It turns out I have a stubborn streak,’ he said with an undisguised touch of irony which made her smile. ‘My painting became my one act of open defiance. I remember reading somewhere the only way to deal with a bully is to stand up to them. I was not big enough to fight fire with fire, so my pictures were a way of telling him he could not control me. The angrier it made him, the more I drew. A small, petty victory over the man I hated most in the world.’

  Like Cassie’s pretty secret plates or her pretty pink garters. All of her writing. ‘Do you still paint out of defiance?’

  He paused for a moment, those dark brows drawn together while he thought about it, giving Cassie the opportunity to gaze at his profile in the candlelight unhindered. His skin golden. Those spectacular eyes as blue as the deepest ocean. After a moment his mouth slowly curved upwards. ‘No. Now I do it because I need to. We both know my efforts at conversation often leave a lot to be desired, but I can talk with my paints and say things I would never dare to say out loud.’

  ‘Like what?’ He was staring down at his hands where they rested on his knees, suddenly awkward in his skin and all the more endearing because of it. Not so tough and brash underneath it all perhaps?

  He groaned and shook his head, smiling sheepishly. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It matters to me and it matters to you. Tell me.’

  ‘If this conversation ever leaves this bedchamber, Cassie, I might have to hunt you down and wring your pretty neck.’

  Pretty? In whatever context the compliment warmed her. ‘Go on, Captain Warriner—you cannot leave it unsaid now as I will hound you until you confess all. What can you say with paint you would never dare say out loud?’ She nudged his arm playfully and wondered if he was blushing. In the dim light it was difficult to tell, but as he was hiding his eyes behind his floppy hair and his shoulders had dropped, she was certain he was embarrassed. Eventually, he scraped his hands over his face before slanting her a look of surrender.

  ‘To me, the world is a beautiful place. Trees, flowers, animals, even clouds fascinate me. I love the p
atterns and shapes. Appreciate the colours and proportions. All things which horrified my father, who might have been more accepting if I had painted grand battle scenes or epic pictorial commemorations of classical literature, like the great masters. But I would prefer to paint a marigold than a masterpiece.

  ‘Or a pair of talking horses getting married under an arch of carrots.’

  ‘So much more interesting than a battle scene for sure.’

  ‘Did you really mean it when you said you would illustrate all of my stories?’

  She heard him exhale. ‘I did.’ No doubt he regretted the offer now. ‘If you will forgive me for my appalling behaviour this afternoon and my monumental folly in coming here tonight, I will illustrate all of your flights of fancy gratefully.’

  ‘You would do all that solely for my forgiveness?’

  ‘Not entirely. I have a selfish reason to want to do it.’ Cassie’s pulse began to race at the words, hoping he was about to make a declaration of some sort, because in these last few minutes he had opened up to her in a way he never had before. Shared confidences. Sat so close to her they were practically touching when he could have moved to the opposite end of the bed quite easily. Quite properly. Yet right now, they were cosy.

  Close.

  At his instigation. And it felt so right. If he felt it too...

  ‘The thing is...’

  He regarded her shyly and her heart leapt.

  ‘I find I actually enjoy painting your whimsical stories. I think I might have a knack for illustrations.’

  Cassie deflated as her silly, fleeting hope was crushed, not that she would allow him to see it. Of course he was not as overwhelmed by their intimate predicament as she was. He had only kissed her to prove a point, after all, and she had forgiven him for it. Sort of. ‘You do have a knack for illustrations. I am sure all manner of people would pay handsomely for your skills.’ She risked peeking at him and could see her words had pleased him even though his had disappointed her.

  ‘I doubt there is much money to be had from drawing caricatures.’

  ‘I believe Hogarth and Gillray would disagree with you. They made a fortune from their talent for caricature and satire. You have a good eye for the amusing and funny details, Jamie. Like Hogarth. A wedding arch of carrots is very funny.’

  ‘But I only thought of the carrots because you had painted such a vivid picture in my mind with your witty words. Maybe our combined talents could earn us both a living? Your stories and my illustrations do make a pretty good picture book, if I do say so myself.’

  Cassie sighed and shook her head. ‘Alas, I can never publish them. I daren’t. My father would never allow it. He disapproves of common entertainments and works of fiction in general. If you are going to make a career out of drawing, it cannot be with me.’ Although it would be a splendid way to earn her own independence.

  ‘You write in secret.’ It wasn’t a question. He had probably worked out as much when she had begged him to hide her equipment.

  ‘I do. It is a guilty pleasure I allow myself, but not one I could ever seriously pursue, as much as I might want to. At least not while I live under my father’s roof.’ Was that too blatant a hint that she was open to him rescuing her? Probably. It made no difference. Jamie failed to pick up on it, or if he had, he was letting her down gently.

  ‘Many writers publish anonymously or use a pseudonym to disguise their real identity. Perhaps you should acquire a nom de plume. Orange Blossom and the Great Apple Debacle by the intrepid Miss Freckles.’

  She could not help smiling at the thought. ‘Illustrated by Captain James Warriner.’

  ‘It would never sell with the name Warriner attached to it. We are far too untrustworthy a family.’ He was smiling, too, and somewhere during their exchange he had leaned a little sideways so their shoulders were lightly touching again. It was playing havoc with her pulse.

  ‘Then you also need a—what did you call it? A nom de plume?’

  ‘It’s French. Literally translated it means a pen name. But as I don’t work with a pen but with a brush, mine would be a nom de pinceau. A brush name.’

  ‘You speak French?’

  Of course he did. Fluently. Had he not he never would have been able to blend in so well in the French lines or gather the essential intelligence and reconnaissance he had been sent in alone to retrieve. A whole hornets’ nest of things he really did not want to talk about. ‘Only a little.’

  ‘I suppose you had to, fighting Napoleon and all. Do you miss being a soldier?’

  ‘No.’ The word came out without Jamie having to consider it, yet as he said it he realised it was true. He missed being able to walk properly, that went without saying. He missed not earning a salary. He sometimes missed the respect which came from being Captain Warriner, decorated soldier and all-round reliable fellow in the King’s Army. But he did not miss the dangerous and unpredictable existence of being in a war. The knowledge came as a revelation. For as long as he could remember, being an officer had defined him, then not being able to be that soldier had cruelly defined him. Now, here on her bed, talking in whispers with a beautiful freckled woman who was slowly driving him out of his mind with longing, he was not entirely sure what he was any more. An artist? Cassie had certainly given him something to ponder. The idea of earning a living from his art excited him more than anything had in a very long time because one did not need good legs to draw and he loved doing it.

  That idea and Cassie, of course. As he sat beside her in her bedchamber, the single candle picking out the copper in her hair and the gold speckles in her eyes, his mind was wandering away from the problem of her father in the next room and on to other more carnal thoughts. One man. One woman. Hundreds of glorious freckles.

  And one bed.

  Beds were for sleeping in and for making love in, and right at this minute he was desperate to do the latter. Painfully desperate and becoming more so with each passing second. The enforced intimacy created by having to whisper and huddle together in order to hear the other was not exactly helping. He shivered every time her lips dallied near his ears. Several times he had been sorely tempted to just close the short distance between them, kiss her and be damned. He had even rationalised how he could worry about all of the ramifications and obstacles later. Once the deed was done.

  If she was open to the idea, of course.

  He was resourceful and wily after all, Napoleon’s bullets had not robbed him of those skills, so perhaps he could find a way to figure it all out.

  She licked her lips, drawing Jamie’s hungry eyes to them and reminding him of the way they had tasted only a few hours before. The lingering memory of her soft mouth pressed against his was not helping to cool his ardour. His was a scant few inches away. He could close the distance in a heartbeat. Without thinking Jamie found himself drawing closer, then stopped short. He had promised her that her virtue was safe with him after his ungentlemanly behaviour earlier. If he stole another kiss, she might never trust him enough to forgive him again. Yet the air between them positively crackled with promise and she hadn’t backed away.

  Did that mean she might be open to the idea, too? ‘Cassie, do you think...’

  What?

  Do you want to spend your life leg-shackled to a cripple who might attack you in the night because he has mistaken you for the sadistic Capitaine DuFour? But it will be all right, my darling Freckles, because you will have your own bedchamber, preferably one a good half a mile away from mine because I cannot be trusted. I also sleep with an arsenal, don’t you know. And I just might, if I am in the full grip of my irrational and ferocious panic, take that pretty neck of yours in my bare hands and snap it as I did le Capitaine’s. Like I almost did to my brother’s. It took the other two to pull me off him then, as I was so insensible I was like a wild animal. A rabid dog. A monster.

  No.r />
  He wouldn’t do that. Even though she was staring right back at him and he could have sworn he saw matching need mirrored in her eyes. ‘Do I think what?’ Her voice was breathy. Or was he imagining it?

  Seductive.

  God help him. Or perhaps he was mapping his own desires on to her and seeing things which were just not there.

  ‘Do you think your father might be asleep yet?’

  She sat a little straighter and he saw the confusion in her face. ‘He might be. Do you want me to check?’

  Jamie nodded and grabbed his discarded boots from the floor. The sooner he could escape her intoxicating presence the better. For both of their sakes. She scurried to the door and poked her head out, then motioned the coast was clear. Boots in hand, he started down the stairs, trying to ignore the ominous darkness which awaited him. It would be all right. Satan was hidden a short way down the lane, tethered to some branches and stood next to his lantern. Even if it was no longer alight, Jamie had oil and flints in his saddle bag and could soon remedy the situation. And the moon was probably out again, or at least he hoped it was, and he had his pistol tucked into his belt.

  He was halfway down the staircase when the vicar woke up. ‘Cassandra? What are you doing, girl?’

  Jamie froze and waited anxiously. ‘I left a light on downstairs, Papa. I am going to put it out.’

  ‘You are such a stupid girl! Can I not trust you with even one simple task? You’ll burn the house down one day.’

  ‘Sorry, Papa. I shall try harder in future.’

  Noisily, and for effect, she clomped down, too, giving Jamie a chance to get to the back door and open it without too much fear of being heard. She hovered close by, her fingers nervously wringing the edge of her skirt as her eyes kept darting back towards the top of the landing in case her father followed.

  The worst part was, Jamie did not want to leave her. He did not want to be denied her company or leave her at the mercy of her dreadful father. He had the overwhelming urge to ask her to come with him. Then what? It was a silly, futile hope. ‘Will you be all right?’