by Linda Jones
"Did you forget something?” He could tell she tried to keep her voice aloof, but a faint tremble betrayed her.
"Yes.” He closed the door behind him and walked toward the bed, stripping off his shirt and tossing it to the floor, picking up the candle from the bedside table and blowing out the flame.
He wasn't so drunk or so besotted that he'd take the chance of Penelope seeing the tattoo on his upper thigh, the image of a dagger etched in indigo.
"Maximillian,” she whispered as he took the satin coverlet in his hands and peeled it away from her body. He could hear the confusion in her voice, the questions he couldn't allow her to ask.
So he crawled atop his wife and silenced her with a kiss, a deep kiss he'd been longing to give her for weeks. He covered her body with his own and thrust his tongue into her mouth, his anger and his passion and his love mingling until he couldn't separate the emotions that warred within him.
Surely she felt his arousal pressing against her, the indisputable evidence that he could not run from her, that no matter how incensed he was, how damned self-righteous, he needed her.
Ah, she smelled so good, so sweet and tempting and forbidden.
He wondered if Penelope would push him away—and he wondered how he'd respond if she did. She didn't know what it was costing him to be here, that he was paying for his obsession with a little piece of his soul. Would he allow her to push him away, if it came to that? he wondered. But he didn't have to wonder for long. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he pushed her to the center of the big bed; she kissed him back with a tentative softening of her lips and a darting tongue that danced with his own.
He could get lost here, in the dark, in Penelope's arms, in the body she offered. Here he could hide from the truth, from his heartache. In the shadows and the heat of pure sensation he could hide from everything but his love for this woman.
His heart and his soul, everything he was and believed in, for the moment it was all hers.
For now, he allowed himself to forget that the moment couldn't last.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Thirteen
She was such a simpleton for believing, even for a moment, that Maximillian had changed.
After the night of the Huntlands’ ball, the night he'd come to her bed and loved her until dawn lit the sky, she'd expected that somehow—some way—the man she'd fallen in love with and married had returned to her. He hadn't said a word when he'd come to her bed, and hadn't allowed her to speak, either, but she was convinced there had to be love in such a powerful encounter.
Perhaps not, since she'd barely seen her husband in the days since, and on the few occasions they'd been in the same room, he'd been indifferent and easily distracted. The days grew progressively warmer as spring came to Charles Town, but Penelope found no joy in the arrival of her favorite season.
She could only hope that she now carried a child—a baby she could devote herself to, love and care for, as her husband refused to allow her to love and care for him.
The sketch on her lap was not what she wanted. Her fingers, or else her mind, were not cooperating this morning. The double doors of her parlor stood open to allow fresh air to circulate, and the garden beyond was her inspiration for the morning. She wanted to capture the beauty of the flowers there, but she wasn't happy with the results. Perhaps she was too distracted this morning even for simple flowers. She tossed the sheet aside and began again, sketching what her mind saw. Portraits had never been easy for her, but she'd painted Tyler and Mary many times.
In just a few strokes, Maximillian's face took shape on the paper. She knew the lines so well, the cut of his jaw, the line of his nose, the shape of the lips. But she couldn't get the eyes just right.
It wasn't simply that her talent for capturing that part of the face was not great, though she had to confess that might be part of the problem. A good portion of the problem was the subject. Maximillian's eyes were rarely the same. Lazy one moment, piercing the next. Hooded and sleepy, and then in an instant all-seeing. Gray-blue one day, more green the next, he had the eyes of a chameleon. How could she begin to capture something like that?
"I will not wait on the doorstep."
Penelope heard her cousin's familiar voice issuing a strident order that carried easily from the front door to the parlor. She had put the portrait of her husband aside and was smiling by the time Dalton and Mary reached the parlor. Dalton was staring at Mary with annoyance and something near fury on his face. She really would have to speak to Maximillian about finding something else for Dalton to do. He simply was not well-suited to his position.
"Thank goodness,” Mary said dramatically as she floated into the room. A simple lace cap sat atop perfectly sculpted curls, and she was dressed in one of her favorite day dresses, a calico in blues and greens. “Why, I was certain this servant was going to bodily restrain me so he could announce me properly or some such nonsense. And this can't wait another minute."
Mary shot a prim and angry glance over her shoulder to a waiting Dalton. “You're dismissed,” she said haughtily.
Dalton took a deep breath and turned sharply on his heel.
"What can't wait?” Penelope rose from the sofa and greeted her cousin with a kiss on the cheek. A breeze wafted through the opened doors, a fragrant and refreshing breath of fresh air.
Mary disengaged herself and walked through the opened doors into the stone-paved courtyard. “Father's decided to leave for the plantation next week."
Penelope followed her cousin outside, stepping into the sunlight. “I'll miss you,” she said, and she meant it. Her cousin was the only person she could really talk to. Once Mary was gone, she would truly be alone. “Very much."
Mary spun around quickly, and there was a touch of panic on her pretty face. “Can I stay here?” she asked breathlessly. “Father's closing up the house completely and taking all the servants to the plantation. He won't return to Charles Town for months. This is such a big house, and I won't be in the way, I promise you, and..."
"Yes,” Penelope said with a grin, not even allowing her cousin to finish voicing her request. It would be wonderful to have Mary living under the same roof, to have someone to share meals with and talk to, someone to lean on, just as she and Mary always had.
Mary's eyes widened. “Don't you even have to ask your husband's permission?"
"No,” Penelope said quickly. Why should Maximillian object? He was rarely in the house, and when he was here he had little time for his wife. There was no reason for him to deny her, and in this she would stand her ground. She needed Mary with her, now. “He'll love having you here as much as I will."
"No!"
It was Dalton who first reacted to the announcement, with a step forward and a loud denial.
"I'm afraid so,” Max said with a sigh. “There's no credible reason for me to refuse."
"The cousin's trouble,” Dalton hissed. “She sees everything, touches everything, is never still. She has a tart mouth and sharp eyes, and..."
"Enough,” Max said with a smile. “Do you really think two pampered ladies are too much for the League of the Indigo Blade?"
"Yes,” Dalton said indignantly.
John and Beck laughed softly.
"It is a complication,” Fletcher said quietly, and Max's smile faded as he looked across the desk to the dissenters. The lights in his study burned low, Penelope had been long asleep, and he himself had shed his fancy duds for a simple brown suit.
"That it is,” Lewis agreed, and Max could hear the resignation in his voice. The others looked somber but voiced no further protest.
"Have you located the boy?” Max directed his question to John.
"Yep,” John said softly. “The lad didn't go far, that's for sure. He's met up with a band of rebels not twenty miles from here."
"How is he?"
"A fine shot with a rifle,” John said proudly, “a hot head and a loud mouth. A grand lad, he reminds me of ... me. Are you sure
he's your wife's brother?"
Max looked at the desk so they, perhaps, wouldn't see his smile. A simple “he's well” would have sufficed, but John's answer told him much more. “I'm positive."
"Too bad,” John mumbled, his voice thick and indistinct, as always. “He might've made a fine addition to the league, in a few years."
"Perhaps he still might."
Tyler was well, and as much as Max wanted to he didn't dare share the news with Penelope to ease her worry. He could offer no plausible explanation for his knowledge.
He dulled his obsession for Penelope with this work, avoided being alone with her, tried to escape even thinking about her. But there were moments when she came to him. Unwanted and unbidden, she crept into his mind. The woman he'd thought her to be, not the woman she truly was.
"Are we ready?” He directed his question to Beck, who'd seen to the preparations for tonight's adventure. A small town across the river had formed a militia, and they needed guns, powder, and bayonets. Max had instructed Beck to include clothing, sturdy boots, and food to the shipment. In the long run, he imagined those staples would be more needed than the weapons.
And they were in this for the long run. War appeared to be inevitable, and the colonies were equally divided into three groups: the rebels who craved freedom, the loyalists who supported their king, and those who wanted only to be left alone to live their lives in peace.
Those who wanted no part of the conflict would suffer in this as everyone else would. Peace was an impossible dream, a fantasy men strove for and rarely found. Like love and happiness, like justice and fairness.
Fools, all.
The music was lovely, intricate and soothing pieces that allowed Penelope to forget her troubles for a while. The St. Cecilia Society was presenting an evening of Bach, and the stringed instruments on the stage performed beautifully.
She had spent a good part of the afternoon trying to convince Maximillian that she did not want to attend this concert. He, of course, insisted that they should be seen. At the moment, she was glad he had forced her to attend.
In their private box, Maximillian was seated beside her, his eyes closed, his long legs stretched out before him. His hands were very still, and white lace from a pristine cuff brushed long, idle fingers. He was dressed in deep blue satin tonight, as was she. It was important to Maximillian that they appear, in public, to be ideally suited, wonderfully happy, an incomparable match in every way. From this box above the crowd below, she had no doubt but that they appeared to be the perfect couple.
Maximillian snored softly, and Penelope jabbed him gently with her elbow. He started, glanced to her sidelong through hooded eyes, and then allowed those eyes to drift closed once again.
"You've married an imbecile."
The words were whispered into Penelope's ear, and she jerked her head around to find Victor Chadwick leaning over her. A quick glance at Maximillian showed him to be sleeping soundly once again. At least he was no longer snoring.
"What are you doing here?” she hissed.
"I'm here with the Fairfax family,” he said softly. “I saw you sitting here with your—” he glanced briefly at Maximillian—"your husband, and you appeared to be so completely miserable I felt it my duty to see if I could assist in any way."
"As a matter of fact, you can,” she whispered.
At her side Maximillian snorted softly, opened his eyes very briefly, and allowed them to drift closed again.
Penelope rose slowly, nodded to the exit, and followed a smug Victor through velvet curtains.
"You need me. I knew you would, one day.” Victor took her hand. “I would do anything for you,” he whispered.
"Then make it public knowledge that I had nothing to do with Heath's capture and his death,” Penelope said succinctly. “There's nothing else you can do for me."
He was unmoved by her request. “Anything but that,” he said as he bent to kiss her hand.
As his lips touched her knuckles, Penelope jerked her hand away. She was as big a fool as Maximillian to believe she could sway Victor in this. “Then we have nothing to discuss.” She turned from him to return to her seat, but he caught her arm and pulled her back.
"Tell me, Penelope,” he whispered hoarsely, “why did you marry that imbecile? I vow, the puzzle keeps me up nights, pondering until the sun rises."
Victor's fingers on her arm were too tight, his face so close she could smell his rum and cigars—and yet she was not afraid.
"Do you know what it's like to be truly loved?” she whispered, refusing to recoil. “To be loved so much that you can see and feel and all but touch it?” She didn't wait for an answer. “Maximillian loved me that way, and it was ... it was irresistible.” She wondered if Victor would notice that she spoke of that love in the past tense. “He swept me away with that love."
Victor released her, and without waiting for a response, she slipped through the velvet curtains and to her seat. As she sat down, Maximillian awakened with a start. He blinked to clear his sleepy eyes, and turned to her slowly.
"Where did you go, m'dear?"
"Nowhere,” she whispered. “I've been here all along.” His sleepy eyes did not challenge her.
"Lud,” he said with a yawn. “I must've been dreaming."
He closed his eyes once again, but this time his hand rested on her arm. A few measures of soothing music passed, and his hand drifted toward hers. Before Maximillian drifted off again, he wrapped his long fingers around Penelope's wrist, effectively and softly manacling her.
She couldn't sleep.
Penelope paced in the darkness of her room, after trying for several hours to force sleep to come. She'd never been a fidgety one, but had always been able to find rest easily. In the past she'd crawled into bed, closed her eyes, and sleep came.
But not tonight, when her mind was spinning. Tomorrow Mary would be moving in. They'd spent the afternoon making plans and choosing a suitable bedchamber. Penelope had been hoping Mary would chose the room next door, but her cousin had chosen the small bedroom at the end of the hall, declaring that she'd fallen instantly in love with the sunny yellow room.
It wasn't only anticipation that kept her awake. At dinner, Maximillian had been more distant than ever. Brooding, indifferent, removed, it was as if he were irritated by her very presence. No wonder he went out of his way to evade her.
The portrait that continued to be a failure was an indication of how well she knew her husband. She knew him not at all.
She stepped through the parted curtains and onto the terrace. The moonlight shone on the garden below, turning the flowers gray and silver, the leaves inky black. Deep shadows filled the garden, hiding the bright colors that would be waiting there in the morning.
The sounds of slow-moving horses’ hooves came to her, first a barely discernible echo and then a distinctly approaching noise. There was more than one horse, more than two or three. She stepped back into the shadows as the noise became clearer, slowing and then stopping, probably at the stables that she could not see from her small terrace. Voices carried clearly in the night, carrying to her soft words she could not discern, and even softer laughter.
There was a voice, a hint of laughter, that reminded her of the man she'd married, a Maximillian she'd once believed to be real. Why was he out at this time of night? Where had he been? No wonder he slept well into the afternoon, if he was this late coming home.
Penelope slipped quietly into her chamber. She hadn't even been aware that Maximillian had left the house, but had assumed he slept just down the hall. Gathering her courage, she went to her door and opened it, just an inch or so. The house was quiet, dead as always, the passageway black and unwelcoming. She did not hear one of the many doors to the outside opening or closing, but eventually she did hear the footsteps on the stairs. Slow, dragging footsteps coming her way. She opened the door slowly, so as not to make a sound, and stepped into the passageway in time to see her husband reach the second floor.
&nb
sp; Her husband, and yet not the man she knew. The first thing she noticed was that he wore not a bit of lace. His clothes were dark and serviceable, and his usually well-groomed hair was hanging limply to his shoulders.
"Where have you been?” she asked softly, and she had the satisfaction of seeing Maximillian jump out of his skin as he spun to face her.
"Good God, where did you come from?” he whispered, taking a single step toward her.
"I couldn't sleep, and I heard horses.” He waited silently for her to continue. “You didn't answer my question. Where were you?"
More furtive footsteps sounded in the hallway below. Before she could ask who was in the house, Maximillian came to her side, took her arm, and led her into her chamber. He closed the door very quietly behind them, and then stood before it, blocking the exit effectively.
"You should not pry into affairs that are none of your concern,” he said coldly. “It might turn out to be very unhealthy, m'dear."
His voice had not risen above a whisper.
"Perhaps I consider my husband's whereabouts my concern,” she answered just as softly. “Am I mistaken?"
There was a brief but telling pause before Maximillian replied. “You are.” He made no move to leave, and in fact lounged against her door motionless and silent.
She'd made a point all her life of avoiding confrontations—with Uncle William, with Mary, with Victor—but she had no desire to walk away from this, to bid the cold man at her door good night and hide under the thick coverlet until morning came.
"I think I have a right to know where you pass your nights, since you don't see fit to pass them with me.” The faintest hint of a tear stung her eyes, but she blinked it away.
Maximillian didn't move at all, didn't smile or frown or wave a dismissive and indolent hand. For a few very long minutes he didn't answer her, either. When he did, Penelope wished she'd stayed true to her nature and hidden silently beneath the coverlet.
