by Karen Ranney
The silence was telling.
He turned, his smile thin lipped. “I see you remember them. It seems they weren’t destroyed after all, Peter.” He took a deep breath, attempted to quell his rage. “The earl has it, and you must acquire it again,” he said. “By whatever means necessary.”
A bow. A nod of agreement.
“When you have completed that task, I have another for you. As important, if not more so. I want you to find Margaret Esterly. Quickly, Peter. Do whatever you have to in order to convince her to surrender the other two books to you.”
There was a message implicit in his directions. By Peter’s small smile, it was evident that the other man had captured his meaning clearly enough.
Had she sold the other two books? He felt a spurt of fear, then rage that she should dare to do this to him.
Chapter 14
A woman’s whisper is more powerful
than a shout.
The Journals of Augustin X
Margaret stood within the Standing Stones, listening to the silence. She’d dismissed her students and remained behind, feeling like a penitent in this place of awe and wonder. A warm breeze blew against her cheek, teasing the tendrils of hair at the nape of her neck and temples, pressing the skirt of her dress against her legs.
Between the stones she could see the valley below, her small cottage and her closest neighbor, Malverne House. It was there that Tom, Penelope’s husband, worked, in the home occupied by Squire Tippett and his family. The squire raised terriers and was an occasional sight on the Downs, the dogs nipping at his heels. Beyond Malverne House was Tom’s small cottage that he shared with his new bride and his mother. Further still was Silbury Village. A small and intimate place viewed from so high a vantage point.
She knew, finally, what she was going to do. The answer had come to her a few moments ago. She would remain in the cottage for another month or two. After that, and before people in the village were aware of her condition, she would move away. She would find another village, pretend that Jerome was recently deceased, and this child born after his father’s death. A poignant tale rather than a shocking one. In this way she would protect her child from her folly.
The decision to leave her students had not been an easy one, but there was one child who needed her more than the girls of Silbury Village. Her own.
She descended the hill and began to slowly walk back to the cottage. A rabbit amused her by sitting on the path and twitching its nose at her. Almost as if he chided her for her preoccupation. There were flowers in the lane, a bit of delft and yellow. She bent down and plucked one, twirled it on its stem, thinking of another yellow flower in a London sitting room. She closed her eyes, feeling herself warm.
Only to open them to find him standing there.
Montraine.
She almost fainted with the shock.
Was she a witch? Had she summoned him to her with the power of her thoughts? She felt rooted to the spot.
He stood beside a carriage in front of her cottage. Silent, motionless, staring at her as if he had all the time in the world to do so. He was dressed in buckskin trousers with a linen shirt laundered to a bright white and topped with a stock. A waistcoat of midnight blue covered it, and over that a double-breasted coat to match. There was not a crease on him. Nothing to indicate that he’d traveled any distance at all.
Had he married? The question brought with it the usual regret. Not that she had spent an afternoon with him. Nor even that she carried his child. But that he was not an easy man to forget.
She walked slowly toward him, managed a smile. “Should I ask why you’ve sought me out? Or even how?” She marveled at the fact that she was able to speak.
“It required a bribe,” he said tightly.
A surprising response. But it seemed that he was not going to elaborate upon it.
“Why are you here, Montraine?” she asked carefully. “To ask me to be your mistress again?”
“You would do better than this place,” he said, looking around him.
“It is not the equal of your London home, I agree,” she said. “But it suits me well enough.”
She approached the door, fitted her thumb in the latch. Would a closed door act as a deterrent to him? She had the distinct impression that it would have no affect on him at all.
“I could provide you a better place to live, Margaret,” he said.
She turned and faced him.
“I do not wish to be your mistress, Montraine. Why did you think I would accept? Because I had acted the part? Perhaps once, but not again.”
“Why not?”
An autocratic question. One that startled her in its baldness. “Why not? Because I was not raised to be a whore.”
“A harsh word, Margaret. Companion is better.”
“You can call an onion a flower, Montraine, but it does not make it so,” she said, amused.
There was a small smile on his face now, reminiscent of another time. It made her wish to press her fingers against his mouth, to chide him for his words. Instead, she focused on the sight beyond him, on the pattern the wind made in the grass. On the sky. The leaden gray clouds had been moved aside by a brisk wind, and a patch of light blue peeped through. A bit of optimism.
He reached out, brushed a tendril of her hair back from her cheek. She moved away from his touch. “There are certain benefits to being my mistress,” he said.
“There are more benefits to living here,” she said.
“Would it do to regale you with a list of advantages I could provide?”
He took one step closer. A lesson she should have learned earlier, perhaps. Michael Hawthorne was not a man easily stopped. Or stayed in the course of any action he chose.
“No doubt you would offer me a house,” she said, burying her trembling hands in the folds of her skirt. “A coach? A wardrobe, no doubt. Perhaps even a crate or two of books for those times when I am bored? To while away the hours when you are with your wife? What else will you give me?”
“I would give you me, Margaret. Does that not count for anything?”
Too much a temptation. After Jerome died, it had been two years until a man had touched her. But these weeks since she’d lain with Montraine seemed somehow even longer.
“Can you not find a willing woman in London?”
“I am more entertained, evidently,” he said testily, “by chasing after one particular female.”
She glanced away, feeling an unwise amusement at his pique.
“I would have thought you busy selecting a wife.”
“My entire list of candidates has been rejected for one reason or another. I am left with one, but I cannot summon the enthusiasm for it.”
A statement that had her looking at him again.
“I pity the woman who bores you so much that you cannot even ask for her hand in marriage.”
His smile was too charming. She looked away again.
“I will not be your mistress. No matter how convincing your argument.”
“Then will you accept a bargain between us?”
“What sort of bargain, Montraine?” A wickedness, to feel such curiosity now.
“A week,” he said surprisingly. “A week of your life.”
“In exchange for what?”
“An end to this,” he said harshly. His mood changed suddenly. As if a summer storm had blown across his smile. Or perhaps his agreeable nature had been a ruse, and he’d been angry all this time. With her?
“Even my work has suffered, Margaret. Instead, my concentration is fixed on the memory of a woman who let me love her in sunlight.”
She felt her cheeks warm.
“Give me a week, and at the end of it, I shall never disturb you again. Your life will be yours to live.”
“As it is now,” she said.
He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’ve not yet had my fill of you.”
The remark was so utterly overbearing that for a moment she didn’t know how to res
pond to it.
Finally she found her voice. “Don’t you realize that even widows are not exempt from scandal?” she said angrily. “Even living in a country village, I have a reputation to protect. It’s why I used Samuel to forward my mail, and why I was so careful to keep my name withheld when I wrote about the Journals.”
“Except for one day when you forgot yourself, Margaret.”
Her breath caught. “How utterly uncivil of you, Montraine.”
“To mention that day, or to speak the truth? I’m remarkably tenacious, Margaret.” There was that agreeableness again, but it was balanced by the sharp look in his eyes and the tightness of his smile.
“It sounds not unlike another bargain,” she said, her cheeks flaming. One kiss. A simple kiss that had led to an afternoon filled with sorcery.
“I did not break that agreement, Margaret. I let you go.”
True enough. She had spent a restless night at Samuel’s house, anticipating Montraine’s arrival any moment. But he had not come and she’d gradually accepted that he had not followed her.
It was safer never to be in his company again. Not only because the chance of her surrender was too great—the afternoon in London had proven that. But also because she was more lonely now than she could ever remember being. Penelope was newly wed; the cottage seemed empty and echoing.
“I want you in my bed.” A frank admission. One that did not please him to utter, from the look on his face. One brow rose sardonically, yet his gaze was shuttered.
“We cannot always have what we desire,” she said wryly. “Sometimes we must accept what we’re given.”
“Fate?”
“Why not?”
“Perhaps what we call Fate is no more than choice. If a man races a horse across a cobbled road, the horse will eventually lose a shoe. Fate? Or the rider’s choice?”
“Exactly what point are we debating, Montraine?” Should she feel so amused?
“You being in my bed,” he answered. “The result of a choice, not fate.”
“I believe I have already chosen.”
“Unwisely, as it happens,” he said huskily.
“Are you that arrogant by nature? Or are nobles trained in such behavior from the cradle?”
“I merely state the obvious,” he said. “Come with me, Margaret. One week.”
“I remember being cajoled in a similar fashion about a kiss, Montraine.”
“I will not do anything to you that you do not wish, Margaret,” he said carefully.
Oh, but that was the problem, wasn’t it? She wanted it all.
“And when it’s over, you’ll leave me alone?”
“Only if you want it.”
Did he think that she would be convinced to stay with him after their week?
Yes.
Here they were again with another bargain. Except, of course, this meeting was fraught with so much more. The secret she held from him. Conjoined memories of an afternoon that evidently neither of them could forget. His words heated her. If she was so susceptible to his words, what would a touch bring? Instant surrender. An answer that came too quickly to be false.
A week of kisses. A week of fascination. In the end, it was too much. Too much danger. Too much attraction. She might well succumb to his role for her, but her child deserved more than a fool for a mother.
“Say yes, Margaret.”
“No,” she said, and turned to open the door.
“Why did I think that’s exactly what you were going to say?”
His tone was amused. But she’d no chance to wonder at it. Before she could open the door, he had picked her up and was striding away from the cottage. Even his coachman seemed enlivened by the scene, for he smiled broadly when he saw Michael approach the carriage with her in his arms.
“Montraine!” She scowled at him, but he didn’t even look at her.
She grabbed at his cravat. He kept walking. She pulled harder. He halted, glanced down at her.
“Are you trying to throttle me?” His grip tightened as he looked down at her, then away, a wickedly sensual smile dancing on his lips.
“If it will make you put me down.”
“I will, as soon as we reach the carriage.”
“You cannot abduct me!”
“I seem to be doing so,” he said reasonably, resuming his progression toward the carriage.
“Montraine,” she demanded, “put me down!”
“Certainly,” he said. “Once we are inside.”
He reached the carriage, shifted her in his arms, and opened the door. She placed her feet on the steps and ducked beneath his arm. He calmly pulled her inside the carriage, ignoring her struggles to get free. He merely sat with her on his lap, her arms trapped by his.
“Surely you are not so desperate that you are forced to abduct women,” she said, scowling at him.
“I seem to have this odd compulsion about one particular widow.”
“Has no one ever denied you?”
“Do you think this a sign of self-imposed indulgence?” He didn’t look at all pleased. She had the thought again that his surface affability hid a deeper anger. But it was not, oddly enough, directed toward her. Almost as if he was irritated at himself.
She herself had felt the same warring emotions. Passion versus prudence. She stared straight ahead, determined not to soften toward him.
He picked up his walking stick from where it was propped in the corner, tapped on the roof of the carriage with the end of it, then dropped it again. All without releasing her.
She frowned at him. He smiled in response, studied her in the dim light of the carriage. “I was wrong. My memory of you did not serve you well.”
She wasn’t quite sure whether she was being insulted or complimented. The former would fan her irritation; she had no reason whatsoever to wish for the latter.
“You are much lovelier than I remember.”
It would be better, perhaps, not to feel a surge of warmth at his words.
“Are you going to send me that fulminating stare the entire journey?”
“I see no reason to feel amiable about you at the moment,” she said. “This is not wise, Montraine.”
“You are no doubt correct, Margaret.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
“I believe it’s the only way I can remove you from my mind. You’ve been a constant visitor there.”
“I have no effect on your thoughts, Montraine.”
“On the contrary, you seem to have a great deal to do with them.”
She focused her concentration upon the floor of the carriage. She didn’t even have her gloves. Or her bonnet. He, on the other hand, looked sartorially perfect.
A difficult man to forget. But then, she had not truly tried.
“What do you want from me, Montraine?”
“An understanding,” he said.
He stroked one finger down her bare arm, from elbow to wrist. Her dress was a summer frock, green cotton with short sleeves. She looked down at his hand, then at the expression on his face. His attention was to the inner curve of her elbow, then the slow movement of his finger along her skin.
“Montraine.” Her voice was softer, her tone inquisitive rather than admonitory.
“I remember you sitting in the sunlight, your beautiful breasts bared for me. You trembled when I touched you.” He glanced over at her, smiled softly.
How could he do this to her?
“Shall I tell you how many times I’ve walked into that room? Smytheton looks at me oddly, as if he knows I’ve lost my senses. But the room has a ghost now. A woman who sits quiet and demure with naked breasts, their nipples wet from my kisses.”
She closed her eyes.
He’d released his grip on her arms, but she still sat motionless on his lap. She was trapped by words, instead.
“I’ve thought of you ever since you left me. You make me smile, Margaret, and think of things I’ve never considered before. You have an aura of mystery about you. I fou
nd myself wondering how you spend your days, where you live, why you seem so innocent and yet not. I find myself thinking that if I can only kiss you again, this fascination will ease.”
“But you don’t want just a kiss,” she said breathlessly.
“No,” he softly said.
He reached out and turned her chin. His hand moved to the back of her head, urged her forward one inch at a time.
She stared into his eyes as she came closer, then let her lids flutter shut.
His mouth was hot, the kiss soft and alluring, coaxing her lips open. Once more. Once more and that was all. She would be satisfied never to touch him again.
Liar.
His kiss became the stuff of her dreams. Deeper. Openly carnal, impatient. His tongue invaded her mouth. He gripped her chin with one hand while the other pressed against the back of her head, held her steady.
He broke the kiss long enough to murmur against her lips. Soft words that sent a bolt of heat through her. “A week of kisses, Margaret.” His mouth descended on hers again, stripping her of breath and inclination.
She had vowed not to think of the shape of a man’s shoulders, or how it felt to have her breasts touched. Or the deep emptiness inside her. She had lain awake at night with closed eyes, clenched hands and forced herself to think calming thoughts.
It had not worked. Instead, she had imagined feeling just this way again.
Her hands wound around his neck, stroking the hair curling softly at the nape of his neck.
She should pull back, say something to him that would caution him, urge him to remember the restraint he claimed was part of his nature. Instead, her hands fumbled on his shoulders, kneading them.
He cupped her cloth-covered breast, strummed his thumb over a suddenly erect nipple. “Like a little stone,” he said silkily.
Heat pooled in her body, warmed her cheeks. Quickly summoned desire. She was a true wanton, then.
He kissed her again. Her hair had been left unbound this morning. He gripped handfuls of it, pulled her closer still. His palms were hot against her temples, her cheeks.
Again. Another kiss. And another. Her hands pulled him closer, a sound emerged from her throat. A plea, a moan. A sigh of surrender.
