Arms of a Stranger

by Danice Allen

  “There’s a coffee shop just over there,” said Anne, standing on tiptoe and pointing. “Wouldn’t you like a cup of coffee, too, Uncle Reggie?”

  Reggie grunted, which Anne took for a yes. She knew he hated to admit that he had come to enjoy coffee almost as much as tea. They wove through the crowd and found an empty table and two chairs, and Reggie ordered for them both. Reggie had barely set down the basket and heaved a weary sigh when Anne saw him wince.

  “What is it, Uncle Reggie?”

  “Oh, it’s that tiresome swain of yours. You’d think we could pass one day in peace without running into the fellow.”

  Anne glanced around the marketplace. “My swain? Who can you mean?” For one ridiculous moment, she thought of Delacroix. The fact that she’d nearly allowed the scoundrel to kiss her must have muddled her brain! She had regretted her weakness a thousand times since that fateful afternoon in the cemetery. Delacroix was not the kind of man on which a sensible woman would risk her heart.

  “Don’t look,” whispered Reggie, slumping in his chair. “Maybe he won’t see us—drat! Too late!”

  Anne turned in her seat and saw Jeffrey striding toward them, a broad smile on his handsome face. “Why, it’s Jeffrey! Sit up, Uncle Reggie, you look very sulky and rude in that posture.”

  Reggie begrudgingly sat up and composed his face into a semblance of politeness.

  “Anne! Fancy bumping into you!” Jeffrey tipped his hat to Anne and nodded respectfully to Reggie.

  “I don’t suppose you recall last night at dinner when Anne told you we were coming to the market this afternoon?” said Reggie peevishly.

  Jeffrey shrugged, looking ingenuous. “Did you, Anne? Well! I’m terribly glad to see you.”

  “Yes, it’s been all of eighteen hours since you last saw her,” drawled Reggie.

  “Only eighteen hours?” said Jeffrey with feigned shock. “But it feels like a lifetime.”

  Anne laughed. “You goose. Sit down and join us for a cup of coffee. And don’t mind Uncle Reggie. He doesn’t like these jaunts to the market. They put him in a bit of a snit.”

  Reggie sniffed and said nothing, pretending to watch the people as they passed by. Anne still couldn’t understand why Reggie disliked Jeffrey so much. It was probably because he hadn’t gotten past his original opinion that Jeffrey was too “common” for her. But Reggie ought to know that that sort of attitude only made her all the more determined to be Jeffrey’s friend.

  When Jeffrey had pulled a chair over and sat down, he inquired, “Where’s your aunt today?”

  “She’s visiting a friend of hers, a Madame Tussad. She goes every Saturday and sends Reggie and me on some errand to get us out of the way,” said Anne. “It’s rather mysterious, actually. She always insists on going alone to see her.”

  “She’s probably a vulgar acquaintance she doesn’t dare introduce you to, Anne,” opined Reggie. “Delphina Street isn’t exactly a fashionable address.”

  “My guess is she’s an invalid, and Aunt Katherine doesn’t wish to appear as though she’s advertising a charity visit. But whoever she is, she’s awfully important, because Aunt Katherine never misses a visit. She goes every Saturday afternoon like clockwork.”

  Jeffrey listened politely, but Anne could tell he was indifferent to such mundane chitchat, so she asked, “What are you doing today? Are you researching new information for another article about Renard?”

  Jeffrey smiled ruefully. “I believe I’m growing rather jealous of what used to be my favorite subject to write about.”

  Anne raised her brows. “Used to be?”

  “Sometimes I think my link to Renard is the only thing you like about me, Anne.”

  “Don’t be silly. You and I got on swimmingly right from the start. But if you’d rather not talk about Renard—”

  “Well, the thing is, I have discovered something very exciting about the Fox…” Jeffrey’s voice trailed off, and he glanced nervously at Reggie, who pretended not to listen while he continued to watch passersby. Just then their coffee arrived, and while Reggie fished in his pocket for some coins and ordered another coffee, Jeffrey leaned close to Anne and whispered, “I’ll come over tomorrow night and tell you everything. I’m almost certain I know what Renard has planned next. And I mean to be there when it happens.”

  After such a disclosure, Anne didn’t know how she was expected to carry on a normal conversation. She was aflame with curiosity. And now it was her turn to be Jealous. Jeffrey was going to be a part of the excitement! He might even see Renard, which was something she’d longed to do for weeks! If she were a man, she could go with Jeffrey on this adventure, no questions asked. It just wasn’t fair! she fumed to herself.

  “Have you been to Congo Square yet, Anne?”

  “I’m sorry, Jeffrey. What did you say?” She glanced up and saw him looking at her meaningfully. He was trying to convey to her that she was acting oddly and arousing Reggie’s suspicions. She’d been daydreaming, idly stirring her coffee till it was probably tepid. Jeffrey was right; she must put off thinking of Renard till later.

  “I said, have you been to Congo Square?”

  She took a swallow of coffee and smiled wistfully. “I’ve heard about it. That’s where the slaves gather on Sundays to dance.” Anne gave Reggie an accusing look, which he pretended to ignore. All this pretending was starting to annoy her. “I’ve longed to see it ever since I got here.” Just as she’d longed to see Renard. She figured her chances of seeing either were pretty dim. She felt her spirits flagging.

  “Well, tomorrow’s Sunday…” Jeffrey turned to Reggie. “Why don’t we drive down after lunch tomorrow? All of us, sir. You, me, Anne, and Mrs. Grimms, of course. It’s quite a spectacle.”

  Reggie sniffed. “By all accounts I’ve heard, it’s a spectacle not fit for a lady’s eyes.”

  “Gentleman and ladies gather to watch, sir,” said Jeffrey. “Mrs. Grimms has gone quite often in the past.”

  “Mrs. Grimms is Americanized, I’m afraid. Our notions of what’s proper and fit for a lady’s eyes—particularly as the entertainment falls on a Sunday—are quite different in England, Mr. Wycliff,” said Reggie with a superior mien. “I promised Anne’s parents to look after her as if she were my own daughter. I pride myself on the fact that I’ve succeeded in doing that admirably well. Pagan dancing is not an activity one watches, particularly on the Sabbath.”

  “I’ve always rather thought of it as a cultural lesson, sir,” Jeffrey persisted. “The slaves dance their native dances, using tom-toms and handmade stringed instruments that are rather crude, but which keep up the rhythm splendidly. Their dances are all quite authentic. It’s the one opportunity the slaves have to feel really free, I suppose. Feeling as you do about slavery, and as I know Anne feels, I’d think you’d enjoy seeing the black people participate in an activity indigenous to their true origins.”

  “Don’t try to shame me into yielding to you, Mr. Wycliff,” said Reggie with a stem look. “One might have an intellectual or a compassionate curiosity about many things—say, Chinese water torture, or childbirth—but that doesn’t mean one should be allowed to witness them firsthand.”

  “Unless you’re a man,” said Anne, matter-of-factly. “Then you might do as you please.”

  When Reggie opened his mouth to protest, Anne said, “No, don’t. I don’t want to quarrel today, Uncle Reggie. It’s too beautiful a day for that, and I want to enjoy myself here at the market before it’s time to go home. Jeffrey, didn’t you order a coffee?”

  Jeffrey got up to inquire about his coffee, and Anne concentrated on her own quickly cooling drink. She was feeling glum, quite trapped by conventions. And Reggie’s mood had deteriorated again, thanks to Jeffrey’s showing up unexpectedly. She was studying her uncle’s grim face over the rim of her cup when someone else unexpectedly came into view. Delacroix.

  Anne could see him in profile as he seemed to be examining a bouquet of orchi
ds. He was with a woman—an incredibly beautiful woman. The quadroon was dressed in an aquamarine tignon and a gown of the same deep, bright blue. She was snuggled close to Delacroix’s side, her thigh flush against his, her long, slim fingers tracing circles on the smooth bulge of his upper arm.

  Observing the woman’s behavior, engaged as she was in such a public display of affection, Anne concluded that she must be Delacroix’s mistress. Not even the star-eyed females who flocked to him at parties and the opera had dared to touch him as intimately as this woman did.

  An odd feeling was twisting Anne’s insides till she could hardly breathe, the sharp, unpleasant sensation lessening somewhat when she looked away from Delacroix and his mistress. If she didn’t know better, she’d think she was jealous.

  Then Reggie saw him. “Good God, there’s Delacroix. I suppose he’ll want to sit with us, too.”

  “Don’t you like him, either, Uncle Reggie?” she asked, then added, “At least you can’t accuse him of trying to be my swain.” Anne was distressed to note a trace of wistfulness in her voice.

  “Actually, Anne, I do rather like him, though I can’t say why. Maybe, as you say, it’s because he hasn’t chased after you. That wouldn’t do at all. Lord, doesn’t he have a way with the ladies?”

  He paused while they both studied Delacroix. Today he was wearing a cream-colored jacket and trousers, making his dark good looks all the more striking. The woman was just as striking in her bright colors and seemed extremely pleased to be exactly where she was—practically plastered to Delacroix’s side.

  “They make a handsome couple,” observed Reggie.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t look at them,” said Anne, determinedly turning to face Reggie. “If he catches us watching, he’ll come over.”

  Reggie’s eyes suddenly widened. “No, now that I see who he’s with, I’m sure he won’t dare to.” He blushed, shot Anne a harried glance, shifted in his chair, and cleared his throat. “That is … I mean…”

  Exasperated, Anne shook her head. “It’s all right to say it, Uncle Reggie. I’m not a complete dolt. I know he’s with his mistress. In fact, I figured it out before you did.”

  Reggie stiffened and refused to meet Anne’s eyes. “It isn’t proper to discuss such things with you, Anne. And it’s very unladylike of you to try to discuss them with me. Suffice it to say, Delacroix’s too much of a gentleman to introduce you to his … er … companion. Even if he sees us, he won’t approach us. Mark my words.”

  Wouldn’t he? Anne wondered.

  Maybe it was curiosity that drew her gaze back to the beautiful couple in the contrasting colors. Maybe curiosity kept her eyes fixed to Delacroix’s face as he paid for the flowers, wondering if he’d look at her, wondering if he’d acknowledge her if she caught his attention.

  He turned as if he sensed someone watching him. When their eyes met, Anne didn’t flinch. She didn’t look down shyly or pretend to be surprised, or react in any of the coy ways that would have been usual under the circumstances. She boldly held his gaze—the seconds ticking away like the emotion-charged countdown of a firing squad—till he looked away. Then he took his companion’s elbow and led her through the crowd and out of sight.

  “There are so many things I don’t understand, Uncle Reggie,” said Anne, sighing. “People, feelings, attitudes. It’s all an enigma.”

  Reggie watched Jeffrey moving toward them, a cup of steaming coffee in his hand, the same self-satisfied smile on his face. “Yes, Anne,” he said tiredly, a deep line appearing between his brows. “There are many things I don’t understand, either. People frequently are not who, or what, they seem.”

  Reggie was looking at Jeffrey as he talked, but Anne couldn’t imagine that he was referring to her American friend. She’d never in her life met anyone more open and genuine than Jeffrey Wycliff.

  Maybe Reggie was talking about Katherine, who had surprised them both at the cemetery with a soft side she apparently hid most of the time.

  Or maybe he was talking about Delacroix. To Anne, Dandy Delacroix was the ultimate enigma, the most perplexing mix of human parts and passions she’d ever met.

  She wondered where he was taking his mistress. To a little cottage where a sudden rain shower wouldn’t interrupt their kisses? That awful, unwelcome twisting feeling returned.

  Dressed as Renard, Lucien climbed the tree outside Anne’s bedchamber. His mask, shirt, boots, and trousers blended with the shadows. It was just after midnight, the sky a velvet expanse of muted black, the stars and moon obscured by low-lying clouds. A rumble of thunder echoed distantly. The air was thick with moisture and the verdant scent of wet earth.

  He’d watched till he saw her light go out, then waited to make sure she was asleep before climbing through her bedroom window. He didn’t want to scare her, and he didn’t want the household alerted by her surprised outcry, either. He wasn’t sure how she’d react to seeing him, or what he wanted to do once he got inside … but he was about to find out.

  As he easily, quietly climbed each limb, his anticipation sharpened. He’d been imagining such a risky venture for weeks. Every encounter with Anne had intensified his desire to see her, and for her to see him again … as Renard. She liked Renard. She and Renard believed in the same things. As Delacroix, he was always at a disadvantage. They had nearly shared a kiss at the cemetery, but she’d been fighting her attraction to him all along. Then today at the market, he could see that her defenses were up again. She’d watched him and Micaela scornfully, throwing him a challenge with those magnificent blue eyes of hers.

  Tonight he was meeting that challenge his own way. Of course, he had no business pursuing the girl, but—damn it!—he couldn’t seem to help himself. It was dangerous for both of them, but no woman had ever felt so right in his arms. He was willing to take risks to hold her again.

  He swung over to the window ledge, balanced, then gently eased up the half-opened window, pushed aside the curtains, and let himself down. He was inside. He stood very still. He could see nothing in the dark room and had no idea where Anne’s bed was located.

  Deprived of sight, he found his other senses were sharper. Anne’s scent was in the room. Light, sweet, floral. He listened for the soft sounds of her breathing and was disturbed when, after a couple of minutes, he still heard nothing. Then he realized he was the only person in the room …

  … Till the door opened and Anne entered, holding a lamp in one hand and a goblet of milk in the other. Lucien was frozen to the spot, waiting for the inevitable scream and the lamp or the milk, or both, to fall to the floor with a loud clatter. But she didn’t scream, and she didn’t drop anything.

  In the instant she saw his dark silhouette against the pale curtains, her eyes widened and her hands trembled, making the flame dance and the milk slosh and spill. She hesitated only a second, then closed the door softly behind her and advanced.

  Lucien swallowed hard. Brave girl, he thought. Brave and foolish.

  She looked like an angel. Her golden hair waved over her shoulders. The lamplight gave her face a soft, ethereal glow and reflected in her eyes like shining stars. A pale, flowing nightdress molded to her exquisite shape as she took one deliberate step after another … toward him.

  Lucien lifted a warning hand and stepped back. “Anne … don’t come any closer.”

  She stopped abruptly. “Why?”

  “Turn out the lamp.”

  “I don’t understand. Why did you come? I’m glad you came, but—”

  “Snuff the light, then we’ll talk.”

  She looked doubtful.

  He grinned. “Don’t worry … I’ll find you in the dark.”

  Was that a blush that rose to her cheeks, or just a trick of shadows and lamplight? She gave him one last look, then padded to a nearby dresser, set down the lamp and the milk, and turned out the light.

  Darkness, a few steps, and he had her in his arms.

  His mouth claimed hers with an urgency t
hat was born of weeks of yearning. Why had he ever wondered what he’d do once he got inside her room? Holding her and kissing her were as inevitable and natural as the sun rising in the morning and setting at night.

  Her lips were as pliant and fresh as a tender rosebud, the nectar just as sweet. She melted against him, all her lush curves molding against his taut muscles, inciting him to heights of passion he’d never dreamed existed. Her small, curious hands wended their way up his back and around his neck, the fingers playing at the edge of the scarf that hid his hair. His hands circled her waist and pulled her closer, closer … It was wonderful, it was magical, and it was dangerous.

  He pulled back. Both of them were breathing fast and shallow. “Now do you know why I came?” he asked. “I had to hold you again.”

  “I never dreamed…” she murmured. She gave a soft laugh. “Well, actually I’ve dreamed of nothing else since that night on the Belvedere.”

  He caressed her back. “I’m so glad you dream of me, cher, as I dream of you. But coming here, it is insanity, n’est-ce pas? I can just see the headlines now: Renard Caught at Last … in Woman’s Bedchamber! Hardly heroic.”

  Her hands came around from the back of his head to trail lingeringly over his shoulders and the hard planes of his chest. A thrill ran down his spine. He heard her sigh, sweet and low. “You will always be a hero to me, Renard. But, tell me, do you make a habit of visiting women in this manner?”

  Lucien laughed, hoping he sounded convincingly devil-may-care. He didn’t want her to know that she was the only woman he’d ever climbed through a window to visit. There had never been anyone important enough to him to risk capture. And, truth to tell, any lady’s bedchamber he’d ever wanted to visit before had been easily accessible through the normal means of entry. He’d been welcomed with open arms. Too bad Anne’s arms were the only ones he wanted now.