by Jane Feather
“That I doubt,” Alasdair said softly. “That I doubt.”
“You think he might be following us?”
“I think that Monsieur Denis, or whatever his name is, is too clever and too determined to let you go without a fight. Too much is at stake.”
“Bui if we got out of London without detection …” she said uncertainly.
Alasdair’s expression was grim. “We can always hope.”
It was clear he didn’t have much faith in hope. They rode in silence for a few minutes, then Emma said with determined cheerfulness, “Well, you’ll have to make sure we have adjoining chambers at the inn tonight. My bodyguard will need to stay very close.”
“I had it in my mind to suggest that Maria share your bed and Tilda sleep on the truckle bed,” he said with seeming seriousness.
Emma looked aghast. “What protection would they be? And they wouldn’t be any fun either,” she added.
Alasdair did not smile. “Do you still remember how to use a pistol?”
“I was almost as good a shot as you and Ned,” she averred, her competitive spirit as always coming to the fore.
“I’m not so sure about that … however, I’m interested in how good you are now.”
“It’s been a while,” Emma confessed, seeing that there was no hope of lightening his mood.
Alasdair swung Phoenix off the road and into a field. He dismounted and reached under his saddle for the pair of pistols. “All right, let’s see what you can do.”
Emma dismounted. “Even if I were a dead shot, I don’t possess a pistol.”
“That can be remedied.” He pulled a white handkerchief from his britches pocket and tied it to the low branch of a sycamore tree. It fluttered merrily in the wind.
“Try it at ten paces.” He handed her one of the weapons.
Emma regarded the dancing handkerchief with misgiving. “It’s a moving target,” she protested.
“I doubt Denis will stand still for you,” Alasdair pointed out aridly. “Live targets are rather less accommodating than wafers at Manton’s shooting gallery.”
Emma was obliged to acknowledge the truth of this. She examined the pistol for a minute. It had been a long time since she’d held one. She could hear Ned’s voice telling her how to feel the gun’s weight, to judge how to distribute it in her hand.
“Feet a little further apart,” Alasdair said, behind her. He put his hands on her hips, steadying her. “Now, try.”
Emma held up the pistol, squinting along the barrel. The white handkerchief flipped and flopped around the branch. She squeezed the trigger slowly. The report sounded like an explosion and she jumped, the pistol jerking in her hand.
The handkerchief, unscathed, flapped gaily.
“Now, why did you jump?” Alasdair asked with a touch of asperity, taking the smoking pistol from her. “I thought we’d cured you of that years ago.”
“I’m out of practice, I told you,” she retorted crossly. “And anyway, that target is all over the place. I’d like to see you do better.”
“Would you?” He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I’d be happy to oblige.”
“I’m sure you would,” Emma muttered. “Let me try again with the other pistol.”
Alasdair handed it to her, then stood back, watching critically, arms folded, as she took up her stance. This time, although she missed the target, she didn’t jump.
“Well, let’s assume that if you need to shoot someone, it’ll be at short range and they’ll present a large enough target for you not to miss.” Alasdair took the pistol from her and began to reload it.
“Always assuming I’m not so feeble that I couldn’t bring myself to shoot someone,” Emma said with more than a hint of sarcasm.
“I’m relying on the sharp spur of self-preservation,” he said. “Fetch the handkerchief.” He turned to stow the pistols under his saddle again.
Emma untied the handkerchief and examined it carefully. “Hey, I did hit it!” she exclaimed. “Look at this little burned nick in the lace at the corner.” She flourished the evidence triumphantly. “See!”
“The wind must have blown it in the path of the bullet,” Alasdair observed, utterly straight-faced.
“Why, you … you … of all the mean-spirited, ungenerous … oh, don’t laugh at me!” Not for a minute deceived by his apparent solemnity, she glared at him, only with the greatest difficulty resisting the urge to stamp her foot in vigorous punctuation. “There are times, Alasdair Chase, when I could shoot you without a flicker of remorse.”
“How unsubtle,” he murmured, stepping away from Phoenix. Little flickers of fire darted across the bright green surface of his eyes, and Emma caught her breath. The atmosphere was suddenly charged with that electric tension that so often sprang up between them, and so often at the most inconvenient and inappropriate times.
“Keep away from me,” she said, taking a step backward, raising her hands as if to ward him off. “We’re in the middle of an open field in the middle of winter.”
“I want you,” he said quietly.
“Now?” She looked at him helplessly, knowing she could never withstand the force of lust when once it caught her.
“Now. Here,” he affirmed.
“How?” She looked around as helplessly as before. “I tell you straight, Alasdair, I am not lying on my back on the frozen ground.”
“You won’t touch the ground, I swear.” He reached for her hands, purpose and determination in the line of his fine straight mouth, a firestorm of desire in his eyes.
Emma felt herself melt like butter in the sun. Her will was pure jelly. Sinew, bone, and muscle seemed to dissolve. Without volition, she put her hands in his. His fingers closed warmly over hers and he drew her toward him, inch by inch, until she was standing against him, her eyes almost on a level with his.
Holding her hands, he lifted her arms sideways, away from her body, so that their bodies touched from chest to knee. He kissed her mouth.
Emma became aware of every part of her body where it touched Alasdair’s. Her breasts, her nipples, her belly, her hipbones, her thighs, her knees. She felt every part of his body. She was enclosed in the scent of him, the musky male richness of him. She could scent her own arousal, heady and intoxicating. She leaned in closer, felt his erection hard against her pubic mound. A soft moan slipped from her lips.
Without taking his mouth from hers, or releasing her hands, Alasdair moved her backward. They stepped in synchrony, still touching as if engaged in an elaborate pas de deux. Emma felt the sycamore tree at her back, steadying her.
Alasdair raised his head for a second. His expression was strangely stern. He released her hands, letting her arms drop to her sides. “I want you,” he said again. “I must have you.”
Emma’s voice was a husky little throb as she said with an attempt at a chuckle, “That’s all very well, but do you intend to have me up against a tree like a waterfront whore?”
A glow of laughter banished the sternness from his expression. “That’s the general idea. But what, pray, do you know of waterfront whores?”
“Only what I learned from my brother and his friends,” she answered. The badinage had loosened the taut line of sexual tension, but only to retie it, tighter than ever.
The deep expectant recesses of her body were damp and aching. Her hands were at the waist of his britches, unbuttoning him. She reached for his penis with her own hungry need, stroking and squeezing the hard, pulsing flesh. He had pulled up her orange skirts and pulled down the doeskin pantaloons beneath in one unbroken sweep.
She parted her legs, lifting herself slightly on tiptoe as she guided him into her eager welcoming body.
Alasdair cupped her buttocks. “Wrap your legs around my waist, sweet.”
She did so, her arms around his neck as he supported her bottom. He pressed deep within her as she moved herself against him, taking his full length until she felt him against her womb. Her inner muscles quivered and tightened in response; the m
uscles of her belly contracted in expectation.
Alasdair released his breath in a shuddering sigh of joy. “Oh, to be inside you is to be buried in honey,” he whispered. “Almost intolerably sweet.”
Emma brought her mouth to his, her arms tightening around his neck. Her tongue dived into the warm, moist cavern of his mouth as if only thus could she possess him as he possessed her. She clung to him now as if to a piece of driftwood as the maelstrom caught her, tossed her hither and thither, until it receded, leaving her beached on the shore, sobbing for breath.
Alasdair let her slide down his body until her feet were on the ground. He stroked her cheek as it rested against his shoulder. “Dear God,” he murmured. “You are miraculous.”
“It’s my day for compliments,” she returned with a weak smile. “First adorable and now miraculous. When will it ever end?”
“You also have the devil’s own ability to shatter a mood,” he retorted, stepping away from her to adjust his dress. But there was a laugh in his voice, ready amusement in his eye.
Emma mopped herself with the handkerchief before setting herself to rights. “The chaise has probably overtaken us by now. They’ll be wondering what happened to us.” The prosaic comment served to restore practical concerns.
“Well, let’s be on our way,” Alasdair said briskly. “In Stevenage, I’ll purchase a small pistol for you. One you can carry easily in your pocket.” He offered his cupped palm for her foot.
“You really think I might need it?” She mounted Swallow with a spring from Alasdair’s hand. In truth she hadn’t been at all sure how seriously to take Alasdair’s concern. It seemed almost fanciful to imagine she was being pursued across the English countryside all because of some ridiculously bad poem of Ned’s. It seemed even more fanciful to imagine Ned encoding something so vital to his country’s concerns in a bad poem.
“I wouldn’t be going to all this trouble if I didn’t,” Alasdair said evenly. He swung into the saddle and turned Phoenix back to the lane. “I have no particular desire to spend the next weeks in an ill-appointed hunting box in not very good hunt country. I had some extremely important business on hand in town, as it happens.”
“What kind of business?” Emma regarded him curiously.
“Financial. Your trust and my own affairs,” he told her. “There are some interesting government stocks being floated on the Exchange this week. I had intended to do some dealing.”
“Is that how you manage to live so well?” she inquired, fascinated now. “I’ve always wondered how, without a feather to fly with, you always seem to live like a wealthy man.” She gave a half laugh, confessing, “I just assumed you were in debt. I was always expecting to hear you’d been thrown into some sponging house.”
“I’m flattered you should have found my affairs so interesting,” he said in a voice as dry as sere leaves. “Had you asked, I would have told you. Ned was always well aware of my interest in the financial markets.”
“Don’t snub me, Alasdair. It was only natural I should wonder … and, no,” she added, “I didn’t ever think you wanted to marry me for my money. I know I said that once, but the provocation was insufferable. I just struck out with whatever came into my head.”
Alasdair remembered the quarrel all too well. However, that particular accusation had not concerned him. He had understood perfectly that Emma had simply wanted to hurt him, but the weapon she’d grabbed in her anger had been so ridiculous it hadn’t troubled him in the least.
“Well, we’ll not reopen old wounds,” he said. “Let’s make up some lost time.” He touched Phoenix with his heels and the horse broke into a gallop.
Emma hesitated, considering old wounds. Then she shrugged and set Swallow to follow.
They reached the Swan inn at Stevenage just after four o’clock. The post chaise had not yet arrived, but turned into the courtyard within half an hour.
Maria was heartily glad to be finished with the day’s journey. “My bones are jangling,” she complained, adding in case she hurt anyone’s feelings with her complaint, “Not but that it isn’t a very well-sprung chaise. But I own I’ll be glad to lie down upon my bed for half an hour before dinner.”
The Swan was a large posting-house, the yard a constant bustle of ostlers and postboys, busy with a constant stream of vehicles changing horses.
“I don’t know how quiet it’ll be overnight.” Emma gestured to the noisy bustle around them. “We’ve taken a room for you at the back, away from the taproom. If you don’t mind, Tilda shall sleep on the truckle bed in there with you.”
“Oh, but she should sleep with you,” Maria said, taking Emma’s arm as they went into the inn. “In case you have need of her in the night.”
“I shall not have need of her in the night,” Emma said firmly and with perfect truth. “I don’t care to sleep with anyone, anyway. So if you don’t mind, Maria …”
“Oh, not at all. I own it’ll be a comfort,” Maria said instantly. “I don’t like sleeping in inns, you know, my love. The sheets are so often damp, and one never knows who it is who’s tramping around outside.”
“The sheets have been thoroughly aired,” Emma reassured her. “I discussed it with the housekeeper, who insisted that you would have nothing to fear. She’s instructed a maid to air the sheets with a warming pan again, just to be on the safe side.”
“Oh, you think of everything.” Maria looked much happier.
“Well, why don’t you and Tilda go up to your chamber now, and Tilda can help you undress so that you can rest before dinner. Alasdair’s hired a private parlor and they’ll serve dinner at six. Country hours, I know, but it’s been a long day.”
“Oh, goodness me, yes … and after last night!” Maria threw up her hands in horror. “Hardly a wink of sleep we had then. An early dinner and bed is just the thing we all need.”
Chattering thus, she accompanied Emma to the handsome apartment at the back of the inn on the third floor where her portmanteau had already been carried by one of the inn servants.
“Oh, yes, this will do nicely.” She took off her bonnet with a sigh of relief and sank down onto the bed. “Where are you to sleep, Emma dear? Close by, I trust.”
“Uh … well, not exactly,” Emma said. “They had no other chambers on this floor. I shall be on the floor below.”
“Oh, goodness me, no! On a separate floor … on your own! No … no, my dear, that will never do!”
“Alasdair has a chamber on the same floor,” Emma said. “In fact, right next door.”
“Oh.” Maria considered this as she unbuttoned her pelisse. “I think you should have Tilda with you, my love.”
“No,” Emma said firmly. “I shall not have Tilda.”
Maria looked at her in silence for a second, her eyes unusually shrewd, then she said, “I suppose you know what’s best, dear.”
Emma smiled. “Yes, Maria, I do.”
“I don’t think it’s quite proper, mind you,” Maria said. “You and Lord Alasdair alone in adjoining rooms. I wouldn’t be doing my duty, my love, if I didn’t say so.”
“No one is to know,” Emma pointed out. She was not going to pretend if Maria chose not to. “Who are we likely to meet in Stevenage?”
“Very true.” Maria nodded, then added diffidently, “It would make my heart glad if you and Lord Alasdair could … well, could come to an arrangement again. I always felt that you and he were so perfectly suited. I never did understand what happened.”
Emma gave a rueful laugh. “We quarrel all the time, Maria. You know that. How could we be perfectly suited?”
“I don’t know.” Maria shook her head. “It is a puzzle, I agree. But I still think it’s true.”
Tilda came in at that moment and Emma, not sure whether she was glad or sorry to bring the subject to a close, left them together.
The four horsemen passed the Swan soon after six o’clock. They didn’t stop there, but rode instead to a smaller establishment on Danestrete.
“Y
ou know what to do, Luiz.” Paul dismounted in the yard of the Hare and Hounds.
Luiz grunted in acknowledgment. He half fell from his nag and swore under his breath as he massaged his aching back and shook out his legs. “Godforsaken way of getting about,” he muttered.
“We’ll be here, waiting,” Paul said, ignoring this complaint. “We’ll take her after midnight, so you need to find a way to get at her without noise. You can do that?”
“Don’t know till I see what’s what,” Luiz returned. He pulled down his hat, turned up the collar of his greatcoat, and slouched out of the yard, making his way to the Swan.
Paul gestured to his two remaining companions. “Take yourselves away … anywhere in the town. Just don’t make yourselves noticeable. Come back here at midnight.”
They took themselves off without a word, and Paul went off to do his own work. He hired a chaise and six fast horses from the Hare and Hounds with the instruction that they were to be ready and waiting in the church square at midnight. He had his own coachman, so would need no inn servants. The chaise and horses would be returned to the Hare and Hounds within the week. He paid well for the privilege. Then he went for his dinner.
Luiz slouched into the Swan’s taproom and took up residence in a secluded corner. He ordered ale and did what he did best. Looked and listened.
He noted the preparations for a dinner for an aristocratic party in a private parlor abovestairs. He heard the discussions about the members of the party, about their insistence on having the sheets aired anew with warming pans. About the quality of the wine the gentleman had ordered to accompany their dinner.
He partook of dinner at the inn’s ordinary table in the company of a voluble group of travelers who, once they’d realized he wasn’t of an outgoing nature, left him to his mutton and ale.
After dinner he took a stroll around the inn, a dark-clad figure who blended with the shadows, with the comings and goings of servants and customers alike. At the end of the evening, anyone would have been hard pressed to have offered a description of the nondescript and taciturn customer.
