by Mary Campisi
The golden tendrils floated back and forth as she shook her head. “I can’t be honest at the risk of being cruel.”
Ah. So that was it. She doubted his ability to protect her, but didn’t want to hurt his feelings. A hint of a smile appeared beneath his beard. “You’re concerned I might not be an adequate protector,” he ventured.
She didn’t answer.
“You think I might not be able to run very fast if need be due to the, ah, somewhat impaired movement in my legs.” Well, at least he’d played the part well.
Her head sunk lower.
“And I might not see the suspect or, could possibly apprehend the wrong one, due to these very thick spectacles.” He fingered the thick glass. “Or perhaps this has nothing at all to do with my ability.” He sipped his claret before speaking. “Perhaps you are so repelled by my homeliness, you can do nothing but stare at me in pity and disgust.”
That got a reaction. Her head shot up, fire in her eyes as she declared, “That is not true! I do not think you’re ugly.”
“Nor do I. I merely said homely.” He smiled. “There is a difference you know.”
She looked at him as though he’d gone mad. Then a giggle escaped her, followed by another. “A man with a sense of humor. How unique,” she said, giggling again.
He raised his glass to salute her and took another drink. “Now, why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you.”
A pink tinge washed over her cheeks. “I guess I do have some doubts as to your ability as a protector,” she admitted. Her gray eyes seemed so contrite, so full of sympathy and concern, he almost wanted to tear away the disguise and show her who he really was.
“Please, don’t apologize for your thoughts, Lady Emily. They’re perfectly normal, considering the circumstances. Would an army feel comforted to learn their weapons were butter knives? How would an expert horseman feel if he was expected to show his skill on a wooden rocking horse?”
“Why do you make fun of yourself so, Mr. Mandrey?”
“I’ve learned to look beyond what appears to be, to find what is. Appearances are of no consequence to me. They rarely tell the true story. I was hired for my skill as a strategist and my cunning as a tactician. If I deploy these using the proper methods, brawn and speed will not be necessary.”
“I see. And you feel you will be able to avoid an actual confrontation?”
“I do.”
Emily picked up her fork and began toying with her food. “I feel compelled to warn you that my husband may be equally skilled in such maneuvers.”
Why would she say a thing like that? “Has he ever displayed certain capabilities that would lead you to believe this?”
“No, not exactly. But there’s something about the way he moves, it’s almost catlike, as though he could sneak up on a person when they least expected it.”
She’d noticed that? He’d have to start walking with a heavier foot when this was all over. Trudge, that’s what he’d do.
“And he has a very keen intelligence. I’ve seen him giving his full attention to one person and then turn and answer another before they’ve asked the question.” She swirled her mashed potatoes in a circle. “I can’t explain it. I just feel it.”
Perhaps Emily should be the one in the espionage business after all. She could ferret out everyone with a hidden agenda, starting with Andrew Kleeton.
“Thank you for your concern, but I have been well trained,” he said.
She smiled and nodded, slicing off a piece of roast pork.
Time to do a little prying. “What are your plans for tomorrow?” he asked.
“My plans?”
“Plans for the day. Your agenda. What will you be doing all day?” Dear God, he hoped her plans didn’t include shopping or attending a tea, though the choices in the area for either diversion were limited.
“Nothing much. I plan to go riding with Mr. Kleeton in the morning, then I’ll return for lunch and work in the garden until tea. I hadn’t thought much past that. Why do you ask?”
He ignored the question. “Who’s Andrew Kleeton?” He’d get her version of the suspect. She smiled. A rather large, happy smile, as though the thought of him made her warm inside. Cyrus clenched his fist under the table.
“He’s a neighbor. We go riding together every morning.”
Every morning! Billington had neglected to mention the frequency of Emily’s contact with Andrew Kleeton. “Every morning,” he repeated, when he had control of his temper.
“Yes,” she nodded, scooping a spoonful of peas into her mouth and chewing. “He’s an avid horseman and enjoys the ride.” She smiled again. “He’s also been quite insistent about escorting me about the area, so I won’t have to ride alone.”
Like the fox escorting the hens to the hen house. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.
“How thoughtful of him,” he said in a dry, raspy voice.
“Yes, it really is quite thoughtful, isn’t it? He’s such a gentleman.”
He didn’t comment. “I look forward to meeting Mr. Kleeton tomorrow.”
“You do? Why?”
She really hadn’t figured it out yet. Sighing, he looked at her through his spectacles which were nothing more than cut glass. He could see everything in minute detail. The distortion came from the side of the onlooker and the illusion that contorted his eyes, making them appear much smaller than they actually were.
“I’ll just be doing my job, Lady Emily. Where you go, I go. Everywhere. With a few minor exceptions, that is. If you have difficulty figuring out what those might be”—he gave her a little half smile that he doubted she could see beneath his beard—“I’ll be happy to spell them out for you.”
She sat there, huffing and puffing, getting indignant over his words and the way he’d said them. “Mr. Kleeton is hardly a suspect. Nor am I. I don’t see why you have to follow us as though we’re prisoners.” She started tapping her knife on her plate.
If she only knew that her Mr. Kleeton was the number one suspect, who could well be a murderer and a traitor she’d run so fast she’d wear out the bottoms of her slippers. “You’ll have to ask your brother. Those were his instructions.”
“I will,” she said. “I most definitely will.” She lifted her head and thrust out her chin. Cyrus almost laughed. Nobody was more mercurial than Emily. One minute she was weeping and the next she was ready to poke someone’s eyes out. Probably his.
Best to just let her stew about it for a while. Like it or not, he would accompany her with Kleeton tomorrow. He pushed back his chair and stood. Emily remained seated, staring at her plate. “What time will you be riding in the morning?”
She looked up and blurted out, “Early.” She paused and gave him a sly little smile. “Very early.”
The woman was up to something, he could almost see the wheels turning in her beautiful head. “How early?”
“I’ll be leaving at six.”
He hadn’t pictured her to be an early morning person. He’d bet his last coin she was merely goading him. “I’ll see you then.” He nodded and prepared to leave. He should just walk out the door, but he couldn’t resist the temptation to best her right now. “One more thing,” he said, resting his hands on the back of his chair, “please extend my compliments to the cook.”
“I will.”
She was back to speaking in monosyllables again. “Might I request a meal of my choosing sometime in the near future?” he asked.
“Of course.”
His gaze met hers. “I’d like to start off with cream of asparagus soup.” She gasped. “For the main dish, I’d like roast duck.” She turned white. “And red potatoes.” Her eyes grew wide, as though she’d seen a ghost. From the past, he thought, stifling a chuckle. He nodded again and said, “You pick the dessert.” With that, he shuffled out of the room, leaving Emily staring after him.
Chapter 12
At five forty-five the next morning, Cyrus Mandrey knocked on Lady Emily’s door.
I
t creaked open a few inches and a half-asleep Emily peered at him from beneath heavy lids. Her hair fell like a golden cloak over her shoulders. It was obvious she’d just crawled out of bed.
“Are you ready?” he asked, tapping his riding crop.
“Ready?” Her voice was low and throaty, heavy with sleep. The sound washed over him, stirring his desire for her. A few more inches and he could be inside her room. A few more feet and he could be in her bed. A few more lifetimes and he might stand a chance. Patience was the key to all treasures, including his beautiful wife.
“I believe you told me you were riding with Mr. Kleeton at six o’clock this morning.” Cyrus placed his hand on the door. If he could just inch it open a bit more, he might be able to see what she was wearing. No harm in looking. It was probably one of those virginal white gowns, like she’d worn on the ship, though with Emily’s curves, it had looked anything but innocent.
He pushed the door forward just a hint.
She didn’t seem to notice as her eyes drifted shut. He could see a few more inches. More than enough as he caught a glimpse of her splendid breasts and full hips, swathed in a light, filmy material. The gown clung to her curves in a gentle swirl, lending an ethereal quality to the whole creation. Had this been part of her trousseau? He leaned forward, and the faint scent of lilac drifted over him. Just one more inch.
Emily chose that precise moment to fall against the door, hit her head on the wood, and come awake with a shriek.
“Emily, are you all right?” Cyrus stepped forward and touched her arm.
“Your voice,” she whispered. She no longer seemed aware that she’d shrieked in pain, or that she’d hit her head, or now stood before a veritable stranger, half clothed.
“My voice?” he repeated, dropping it a full two octaves to reach Cyrus Mandrey’s level.
“You called me, Emily,” she said, unable to take her eyes from him.
“I apologize,” Cyrus said. “In my concern for your safety, I forgot my manners.” And he’d forgotten his senses because he’d been too busy ogling her body.
“But your voice,” she said again. “It sounded just like—” She closed her eyes a moment and when she opened them again, he saw the faint shimmering of unshed tears. “It was nothing,” she said, pressing her fingers to the sides of her eyes. “If you can give me ten minutes, I’ll meet you at the stables.”
“Of course. Are you certain you’re all right?”
“I’m fine,” she managed.
He backed out of the room. “I’ll see you in ten minutes.” He pulled the door shut. As he walked down the hall, he thought he heard a sniff and a sob from Emily’s room.
What a damnable mess!
He hurried down the stairs and out the door. The morning air was fresh and brisk, reminding him summer would soon blend into fall. He smiled as the stable came into view and along with it, thoughts of seeing Henry Barnes and Flash.
“Mr. Barnes,” he called out, entering the stable.
“In ’ere,” the old man hollered from one of the stalls. Cyrus figured it would be Flash’s. Old Henry had a penchant for the stallion, said their spirits were alike—wild and free.
“Hello, Mr. Barnes,” Cyrus said, stepping up to Flash’s stall. The horse whinnied at the sound of another voice and jerked his head up.
“’Ow are you?” The man’s beady eyes scrunched up to get a better look at the stranger before him. Henry didn’t like strangers, said they couldn’t be trusted. He believed in two things. Family. And the Sandletons.
“Name’s Cyrus Mandrey, Mr. Barnes.”
“Wot are you doin’ ’ere?” He’d gone back to brushing Flash.
“I’ve been hired to protect Lady Emily,” he said.
That got his attention. His old, withered hand stilled on Flash’s back. “Be damned. I knew it! I told the little miss, the mast’r would’na like it if she went all ov’r the countryside with anoth’r man.” He grinned, and the lines on his forehead and cheeks deepened. “Hah!”
Cyrus cleared his throat and hid a smile. “Actually, Mr. Barnes, I’ve been hired to protect Lady Emily from her husband.”
“What?” he yelled. Flash whinnied again and threw his head up, tossing it from side to side. “There boy, it’s a’right,” Henry said, stroking the stallion’s black coat. “It’s a’right.” The horse calmed under his gentle touch. “That don’t make no sense, mister. No sense a’tall.”
Cyrus shrugged.
“Why a’body can see the master would nev’r do no ’arm to ’is wife. ’E loves ’er.”
The conviction in Henry’s words took Cyrus aback. “Why do you say that?”
“Plain simple as the nose on yer face,” Henry said. “When ’e talked to me ’bout ’er comin’ ’ere, ’e was all concerned ’bout her. Wanted the best fer ’er. But it’s the way ’e talked ’bout ’er. ’Is voice got all soft and cozy like. I could tell. Plain simple.”
Had it been that obvious that he was totally besotted with his wife? Apparently so. To everyone but the one person who should have seen it. His wife. But then he’d made every attempt to hide it from her. When this was all over, he’d make certain Emily never had reason to doubt him or his love again.
“If’n you ask me, ya oughta be protectin’ her from that pretty boy, Kleeton.”
“What do you know about Andrew Kleeton?” Cyrus asked, his words edged with steel.
“Enough to know I don’ like ’im.” Henry pointed a bony finger at Cyrus. “Keep yer eye on ’im. ’E’s the one to watch.”
Before Cyrus could ask any more questions, Emily entered the stables. “Mr. Mandrey?”
“Over here,” Cyrus called out, glancing at his pocket watch. They were already fifteen minutes late. Emily had said they were to meet at the north end of the property at six o’clock. It would take a solid ten minutes to get there if they left now, and they still had to saddle the horses. They would be at least thirty minutes late. Would Kleeton wait? Cyrus had a feeling he would. If Kleeton were The Serpent, he’d use any opportunity to see Emily to further his quest for her husband. If he weren’t, Cyrus believed he’d still wait for her in an attempt to coax her into being his own personal conquest. Both thoughts sickened and enraged him.
“I’m ready. I must have overslept.”
Cyrus turned to greet her, but the words he’d planned to say stuck in his throat. Emily stood before him, dressed in a royal blue riding habit trimmed in gold. She wore her hair in one long braid that reminded him of nautical rope. He still wasn’t used to seeing her in regal attire. Most of his memories had her garbed as a boy in breeches and an oversized jacket. Or, as a servant in thick muslin and sackcloth. Or, as a temptress on The Falcon in a gown sans underclothes. Or, and this was his fondest memory, as a full-blooded woman, warm and naked beneath him.
“A little early fer you ta’day, ain’t it, Lady Emily?” Henry Barnes said with a grin.
A rose tinge spotted her cheeks. “Is it?” She avoided looking at Cyrus.
Henry Barnes laughed and shook his head. “’Les my clock is off, I don’ see you fer anoth’r three hours.”
Emily picked at something on her jacket. “Don’t mind him,” she whispered. “He tends to get confused.”
Cyrus stifled a laugh. Emily had a penchant for getting caught in traps of her own making. “Now for a mount. Would there be any objection if I took this one?” he asked, pointing to Flash.
“No,” Emily said, so quickly he wondered if she’d heard the question.
“No?” Why would Flash matter to her?
“He’s quite spirited,” she said, clenching her kidskin gloves.
“I’m a superb horseman,” he countered. And Flash was his horse.
“You might get hurt.” She twisted the gloves between her hands.
“I’m a superb horseman,” he repeated. What was the matter with her?
Emily threw a desperate look at Henry Barnes who stood off to one side, a huge grin on his face. She waited for him t
o say something to bail her out of her predicament. He lifted his shoulders and shrugged.
“He’s only ever had one rider.” There she went with those gloves again.
“He’ll get used to me,” Cyrus said, more curious by the moment.
“One rider,” she emphasized the words.
“And?”
“My husband,” she said, her voice a mere whisper. “Noah is the only person who’s ever ridden Flash. He’s his horse. No one else rides him.”
For a second, he was so dumbfounded, he couldn’t speak. For whatever reason, Emily had protected something that was his, and she’d been quite adamant about it. It wasn’t exactly a profession of love, but it was a start.
“Fine. You should’ve said so in the first place.” He turned to Henry Barnes, who was still grinning. “I’ll take the chestnut in the corner.”
Ten minutes later, they were saddled and ready to head out. Henry Barnes caught up to Cyrus and motioned him aside with a bony hand. “Jest thought I’d tell ya, case you didna’ notice, I think she’s in love with ’im too.” With that, he stepped back, crossing his wiry arms over his chest and laughed.
Cyrus saluted Henry as he left the stables. He had little time to ponder Henry’s comment because Emily was several paces ahead of him. Was she in that much of a hurry to meet Kleeton? The thought didn’t sit well. It took little effort to catch up with her. She was an expert horsewoman, but he knew every crack and crevice, dip and valley on the estate and his mount, Speed Demon, was nearly as fast and spirited as Flash.
As they neared the north point of the property, Cyrus spotted a lone figure atop a huge, white stallion. Blood rushed to his head and anticipation pumped through his veins. Within seconds he’d face the man who might be the treacherous traitor and ruthless killer he’d exposed seven years ago. If it was, the man would be Peter Crowlton. The Serpent. And Crowlton would want revenge.
