The Mysterious Merriana

by Carolynn Carey

  “We want the very best you can do, Mary,” he’d said. And Merriana had nodded and smiled, even as she inwardly cringed. She didn’t like being called Mary, but Jacques had been insistent in his directions to her. Never was she to let anyone know her real name. It would simply be too dangerous.

  “This is an earl who’s coming tonight,” Tom had continued. “The Earl of Cardleigh, to be exact. He’s also one of my and Luke’s close friends. That sounds a mite strange I know, but there’s a good reason. His estate, Hilltops, adjoins the inn property, and when we were boys, Justin and Luke and me all played in the woods together. Justin was an only child and had nobody else to play with. His mother died when he was a baby, and the old earl had no objection to him associating with us. Then, when Justin was about twelve years old, his father married a widow who had three girls of her own, and the new countess didn’t like Justin running wild. So, she reminded the old earl that Justin was past the age when most young men had been sent away to school, and away he went. Me and Luke lost touch with him for a while after that, but he knows to this day that he could trust us with his life, and the same goes for us.”

  “Lawks, Mr. Tom,” Merriana had said in her best imitation of the English speech of plain folk. “Jest imagine that! You and Mr. Luke knowin’ a real earl. Does he live at this Hilltops place all the time?”

  “No, not at all,” Tom had explained. “He hasn’t lived there since the old earl died when Justin was only eighteen. Justin leaves Hilltops, along with his townhouse in London, for his stepma and her three girls to live in. He says if he didn’t, she would swear to all her friends that she was being made to live destitute, although the old earl left her a generous jointure, and the Dower House is a mansion in itself. Still, Justin wants no hard feelings, so he gives her the run of all the property and he goes his own way.”

  “Don’t hardly seem fair to me, Mr. Tom,” Merriana had said.

  “Don’t to me either, Mary, but Justin says it ain’t no hardship. He has his own life to lead and this way he ain’t tied down by his father’s second family. I reckon that’s how Justin wants it, and things being as they are, I reckon that’s for the best.”

  “What do ye mean, ‘things being as they are,’ Mr. Tom?” Merriana looked up from the sauce she was stirring and noted that Tom looked discomforted by her question although she couldn’t imagine why.

  “Well, just that Justin likes going his own way, Mary.”

  Tom paused, glanced at Merriana’s still questioning expression, and reluctantly continued. “His stepma’s a stickler for always doing things exactly like all her friends are doing, and Justin, well, he just isn’t that interested in what people think about him. Of course, ever since he come into the title, he’s had women setting their caps for him. He thinks they’re mostly interested in being a countess and having a husband with plenty of money. But Justin’s a good-looking man and can be winsome enough when he wants to. All in all, though, what with his stepmother and his two oldest stepsisters hounding him whenever they want something and all those other females plotting to catch him in parson’s mousetrap, Justin seems leery of all women and never gets close to any except his occasional...”

  “Occasional what, Mr. Tom?” Merriana had stopped stirring the burgundy sauce and looked up with questioning eyes.

  “Eh, nothing, Mary. Nothing. Now, here’s them potatoes peeled, and I got to get about my business. If you need anything else, you just let me or Luke know.” And he had almost run out of the kitchen.

  Merriana remembered that conversation as she scrubbed the very last heavy pot. After finishing that chore, she had only to put out the breakfast dishes before she would be free to lie down on the cot Tom had set up for her in the storeroom off the kitchen. Just thinking about stretching out on her soft bed pleased Merriana so much that she quite unconsciously began putting words to the tune she had been humming: Les fleurs sont bleues, Le ciel aussi. Le soleil est jaune, et l’herbe est verte—

  “Bon soir, Mademoiselle.”

  The interruption was so unexpected that Merriana started, once more sloshing dishwater onto the bodice of her dress as she swirled to find the source of the unfamiliar voice that had greeted her in French. And even as she turned, she was berating herself for having been so careless as to have been caught singing in her native language. It was, potentially, a dangerous mistake, and her heart began racing. If this was her enemy who had followed her...

  But no, the man leaning so casually against the facing of the kitchen door and smiling with lazy good humor looked far too relaxed to represent any real danger. Besides, he was, quite obviously, Tom’s and Luke’s friend, the Earl of Cardleigh, and Merriana felt her fears fading, even as she perused his appearance carefully. Had her senses not been insulated by exhaustion, she might have realized that her frank appraisal could be construed as bold. But she didn’t realize, and he was, after all, standing as still as a statue, as though actually inviting her scrutiny.

  He was a large man. Not as large as Tom, but better proportioned, with wide shoulders and slim hips. His fine cambric shirt was open at the throat and a few dark hairs showed at the top of his chest. Dove-colored pantaloons stretched tightly over well muscled thighs and calves.

  But it was his face that caught and held Merriana’s attention. His gray eyes were the same hue as the darkened Atlantic seas when a storm was brewing, and his mouth, with well-shaped lips, was fixed with a smile that now contained no mirth.

  She realized then that she was ogling the man with unseemly interest, but she really didn’t want to look away from that face. To describe him as “handsome” would have been analogous to describing the Sphinx as “large”: thousands of nuances of shape and color and personality would have been lost in the inadequacy of the term. There was much more than perfection in the angles and planes that formed that face. There was, beneath a carefully arranged expression that masked all private feelings, the hint of a dangerous predator and Merriana suddenly felt that she could now empathize with a rabbit when a hawk soared overhead.

  How many of her thoughts were reflected in her eyes was a question she preferred not to consider, for she realized that the man was returning her scrutiny, and he continued to do so for many seconds. When he at last stepped away from the door frame, he walked slowly toward her, never taking his eyes from her face. And then, when he stood directly in front of her, his smile widened into a grin.

  “You realize, of course, Mademoiselle, that you have made a strategic error. The daughters of English farmers do not sing French songs, or if they did, their accent would not be that of a French native. You have a lovely voice, by the way. It impresses me almost as much as your face. But of course you are already familiar with the qualities of your appearance. That’s why you were chosen for this work, I assume. Obviously, it wasn’t for your intelligence. Did it never occur to you that an English girl who cooks like a French chef would arouse suspicion?”

  He seemed to be waiting for a reply but Merriana had no idea what he was talking about. How could her cooking create suspicion? Suspicion of what? She sought an answer to her questions in his eyes but there was nothing there to clarify his words. Merriana felt a frown pulling at her brow. If only she weren’t so tired, perhaps her mind would be sharper. She didn’t enjoy feeling like a simpleton and was about to demand the man explain himself, but he forestalled her.

  “No response, my dear? But surely you’ll admit that the coincidence is a bit too, eh, may I say, coincidental? A French girl shows up at the Drake and Cock shortly before I’m to meet her countryman at this inauspicious inn and that countryman is mysteriously injured on his way here. I can’t help wondering, of course, how your people learned of our mission, but I place little confidence in your telling me the truth of the matter. What did you have in mind for me, I wonder? Was I, too, to suffer an accident?”

  Again he seemed to expect some reply, but Merriana continued to frown and stare into his eyes. She was beginning to fear that the man was ma
d, and she had no idea how to reply without running the risk of inciting him to some violence. Perhaps if she backed away... No, her knees were now too weak to allow her to move, so she continued to stare into his eyes. She felt somehow that as long as she maintained eye contact, neither of them could move.

  As it turned out, this supposition proved true only for her. The man at that moment lifted one of his hands and placed it at the nape of her neck, entwining his fingers into her hair as he pressed them against her scalp. The anger in his eyes was being supplanted by another emotion, one that Merriana couldn’t identify.

  “Or were your plans to seduce me?” he murmured. “Yes, I think that must be it. Why else would they have sent a woman who must be the most beautiful in all of France? Your lovely eyes widen, my dearest? Did you not know you were beautiful? Of course you didn’t. I’m sure no man has ever held you in his arms and told you that your face is the nearest thing to perfection he’s ever seen or that your curves—which, by the way, are quite artfully emphasized by the damp bodice of your gown—make him uncomfortably aware that, gentleman or no, he is first of all a man.”

  His voice was growing a bit husky, and Merriana’s eyes widened even more with surprise. Marzipan had been more plentiful than sweet words where she had been raised, and no one had ever told her that her looks were anything out of the ordinary. Apparently, this man’s madness caused him to see qualities in her that weren’t there. Still, she wished she’d maintained better control over the extension of her eyelids, for when he continued, his voice had lowered almost to a whisper.

  “Those eyes—my God, but a man could lose his soul in those eyes. I’ve never seen bigger or bluer in my life. Nor have I ever seen hair quite the color of yours. It reminds me of wild daffodils.” He sighed, exaggeratedly. “Ah well, if I must be seduced in the service of my country, so be it. Let’s get on with it, shall we?”

  The fingers that were entwined in Merriana’s hair began to ever-so-slightly and very gently tilt her head, holding it in a certain position while the earl slowly lowered his lips toward hers. Merriana’s fatigued mind finally informed her that it was time to pull away, but the attempt only resulted in a tightening of those fingers, not so gently this time, in her hair, and his lips were soon touching hers, very softly at first, and then, after a few seconds, with a bit more pressure.

  Merriana had been kissed before, but not in years and certainly not by an expert. A new groom at the inn in Paris, not understanding her position at the hostel, had approached her one day in the hallway. She had been sixteen and not unaware of what he was about to do, but she was curious and so let him proceed. It had been unfortunate that Jacques had observed that amateurish kiss and gone straightaway to the inn’s owner, Monsieur Fouchant, demanding that the groom be instantly dismissed. Monsieur Fouchant liked the new groom, but he was no fool. He realized that at least seventy-five percent of his business could be attributed directly to Jacques’ cooking. Merriana had tried to intercede on the groom’s behalf, but this had only solidified Jacques’ fears. The groom was gone within the hour and no one had ever tried to kiss Merriana again.

  Until tonight, that was, and the experiences were as different as gold and gloss. The earl’s lips were neither wet nor rough, and Merriana—inexperienced as she was—could easily judge that this man was definitely not inexperienced. His lips were alternately soft and then firm, gentle and then demanding, teasing and then severe.

  Merriana’s knees began to feel even weaker. Afraid that they would buckle, she reached up to hang onto the earl’s shoulders, but she feared he’d misinterpreted her intentions. As soon as she placed her hands on him, he in turn wrapped his free arm around her, pulling her body tightly against him.

  The pressure of his lips decreased, but only to allow an invasion of her mouth with his tongue. Merriana called upon the flagging remnants of her strength in an effort to pull away, but she was helpless to move against the force of his hand on her head and his arm wrapped so strongly around her. She felt his tongue exploring her mouth and found herself, irrationally, hoping that her own mouth tasted as sweet as his.

  She was convinced that she was near to swooning when the earl at last stopped kissing her and pulled his mouth away enough to enable him to speak. “My compliments, Mademoiselle,” he whispered. “You are an excellent actress. Did I not know better, I would think you had never been kissed.”

  “Let go of me!” Merriana had intended the words to be a command, but to her mortification, her voice came out as a mere whisper, and her demand sounded less than convincing to her own ears. Humiliation coalesced with her fatigue and fear to undermine her usual self-control. Tears burned at the back of her eyes and then began to spill down her cheeks. She tried to lower her head, but those inexorable fingers in her hair wouldn’t allow it.

  “What? Tears, my dear? You dismay me. I would have sworn you were enjoying that just as much as I.” The earl brought one hand up to very gently wipe the moisture from her face. “Now, shall we try again? I will attempt to make it more pleasurable for you this time.”

  Then he kissed her again, and, to Merriana’s everlasting surprise, this kiss was different. He moved more slowly and more gently but somehow with more determination and more patience, extending the kiss until Merriana felt strange pulses flowing throughout her body.

  Then she realized that his hand had moved from her back to her front and that he was now exploring the configuration of her curves through the damp fabric that covered her bodice. She knew she should be attempting to fight him, but she was simply too weak. Besides, points of light—dazzling whites and yellows and reds—had appeared behind her closed eyelids and had begun to spin most disconcertingly just before the interruption.

  “Gettin’ acquainted with our cook, I see.” Tom’s voice sounded from the direction of the kitchen door. A chill raced down Merriana’s spine. She would not have thought Tom’s tone could sound so foreboding.

  The earl pulled away slowly, then released her hair. He removed his left hand from her breast but dropped his right hand to her back so that he could turn them both to face Tom.

  “Hello, Tom,” he said. His voice sounded less than steady to Merriana, and she wondered for a second if he was frightened of Tom. No, that was not likely, she decided. She had a very strong feeling that this man would be frightened of no one.

  Tom continued to stare at the earl. The expression on his face was not that of a friend.

  “I must apologize, Tom, if you feel that I’ve in some way offended you or the hospitality you’ve shown me,” Lord Cardleigh stated calmly. He didn’t sound apologetic to Merriana, and she noticed that there was no relaxation in Tom’s stance.

  “It looks to me as though Mary’s been crying,” Tom noted with a frown. His solemn gaze touched lightly on Merriana’s face and then locked onto the earl’s countenance.

  “She has,” the earl agreed. “She’s an excellent actress. But Tom, she is also, I fear, a French agent.”

  “What?” Tom and Merriana cried in one voice. Merriana used the last of her strength to pull out of the earl’s grasp and to spin and gape at him with widened eyes. “I am no such thing,” she declared.

  “The way you talk has sure changed, Mary,” Tom observed with a puzzled frown.

  “Exactly,” confirmed the earl. “She sounds now like one of the highest-born ladies of our land, Tom, but I assume she also can speak with a Northern dialect or you would have questioned her story when she first arrived here. She speaks French like a native of that land too. Not to mention the fact that her cooking is straight from Paris.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Tom said, grimacing. “That would explain why someone knew when the Frenchman was coming. She could have listened at the door when Luke and me talked about it.”

  “That’s what I suspect. What the rest of her plan is I have not yet had time to ascertain. That’s what I was working on when you, eh, made your entrance.”

  Tom grinned. “Sorry to have interrupted,”
he said. But his grin quickly faded as he turned to glare at Merriana as though she were some repulsive reptile that had crept into his kitchen. But it was not Tom’s expression that created the bitter sense of total humiliation burning in her mind. Rather, it was the knowledge that the earl had been kissing her as part of a plan to make her talk about whatever it was he thought she was involved with.

  She was honest enough with herself to admit that, frightened as she had been, she had actually begun to enjoy that kiss, while the earl had merely been doing a job. Mercifully, her humiliation served to feed an anger that was growing inside her, and that anger sent energy flowing throughout her exhausted body. She straightened her shoulders and faced the two men who seemed to fill the small kitchen.

  “I’m devastated to have to disappoint both of you,” she said firmly, “but I have not the smallest notion what you’re talking about. I am French, yes, but I’m not a French agent. I have not listened at any doors, and I was never aware of any Frenchman coming here.”

  “Then why did you lie to Luke and me?” Tom asked. “You said you were from England, and you talked like a farmer’s daughter. You set out to fool us from the minute we opened the door to you.”

  “Yes, I did that,” Merriana admitted, “but I meant you no harm. Our countries are at war, and I didn’t expect to be welcome here or anyplace in England if it were known that I was from France.”

  “Who are you?” the earl asked.

  “I’m the daughter of a chef.” Merriana flushed but managed to look straight into the earl’s eyes as she related the story she and Jacques had concocted. “My father and I lived in Paris, but he’s dying now and felt I would be better off in England. I have an uncle who lives in London, and I’m trying to reach him. He’ll give me a home.”