Mary Blayney

by Traitors Kiss; Lovers Kiss

  One of the men said something but Olivia could not decipher it. He was much too quiet-spoken. She took a chance and peeked out the window again.

  “Yes, and you are right, this is not the way to Yorkshire, but my woman wanted to say she’d been to the Peak so we came on a ride and trouble courted us from the start. Worst of all she insists she saw a ghost. Now I know why no one visits the Peak in the spring. Just not a friendly place.”

  Was he trying to talk them to death? They asked another question and he began again.

  “The only people we’ve seen was a man called himself Big Sam. He was mad to find a woman named Lollie, but was so upset that he made little sense and we could not help him.”

  The men nodded. One gave the appearance of a man as guilty as one could be; the other, on edge of an explosion of temper.

  Garrett did not seem to notice their discomfort. “Will be good to get home to my own bed after an unplanned night away. You want to come warm yourself. My wife is still asleep. If she wakes up she is like to throw a shoe at you and yell that you are a ghost. She is a shrew but is a hefty cow and does her share of work on the farm.”

  Why was he inviting them in? The idiot. He was no more one of them than she was. Or did that make her the idiot? He must have something in mind.

  There was more mumbling, unintelligible, and finally he pushed the door open.

  “She said it looked like a woman in a white gown wandering in the fog, branches whipping her face. Better a ghost than someone lost. Last night’s storm would have done her in for sure.”

  “Where, where did you see her?”

  Olivia began to shake as she recognized the voice. It was one of her kidnappers.

  “See who?” Michael the farmer asked with confusion coloring his words.

  “The ghost, man, the ghost.”

  She could hear the same well-bred voice yelling at his cohort to stop strangling her.

  “Do not tell me you believe in ghosts. We were north of here someways. Been two or three miles toward the Dark Peak.”

  One of the men moaned and the other cursed. “We have to be going.”

  “Nonsense. Warm yourself first. Sara! Sara! Where are you, woman?”

  Do not say a word, she told herself. They will know your voice. She began to cry, loud screeching sobs which were not that difficult to summon.

  “What did you go up there for? These gents mean no harm. They been out in that storm most of the night and just need a little bit of warmth before they move on.”

  Her only answer was more loud sobs.

  “Stay up there if you must, you silly goose.” He laughed heartily. “If you did come down you could discuss ghosts with Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones. It looks like they are off to see if they can find that woman we saw yesterday.” When Michael spoke again Olivia could tell he had turned his back on the ladder to the loft.

  “Here now, warm yourself, Mr. Smith. It is no inconvenience.”

  Garrett did not stop talking for a solid five minutes.

  Olivia lay on her back, then turned to face the wall just in case one of the men decided to climb to the loft. Mr. Garrett’s endless prattle had a certain rhythm to it and after a minute or so it was actually a comfort.

  When the men announced that they must leave, Garrett followed them outside, talking about the crops he was planting and asking if they had any interest in marrying one of his sisters. He wanted them off his hands. They weren’t much in the kitchen “but the village boys like them well enough.”

  As they rode away he called after them “Enoch Ballthur, gents, if you’re ever near to York.”

  The one with the temper made a gesture somewhere between “Good-bye” and “Shut-your-bleeding-mouth.”

  “No? G’day to you both. I hope you find who you’re looking for, even if it is a ghost.”

  MICHAEL WATCHED THEM on their way, heading north. Perfect. Smith and Jones might even find the spot where he and Olivia had camped. All the better confusion for them.

  If he had botched a kidnapping he would want to know what had become of the girl before reporting back to the man in charge. Having met these two, he was sure that they were minions for someone who did not make a habit of stealing young women.

  Smith, at least, was as confused and frustrated as hell. Jones did not look like he had brains enough to do more than follow the simplest orders.

  Michael bet Smith was still trying to decide if he wanted to find her dead or alive. Which would be easier: to evade a murder charge or to have someone identify you as a kidnapper? The question that went unanswered was whether Smith was desperate enough to kill and Jones stupid enough to follow the order. Lady Olivia would not be safe until the two of them were brought to justice.

  Michael watched long after they were gone from sight, the gun heavy at his side. His first task was to make sure Olivia was safe. After that he would round up these two, whether the duke wished it or not. Ride on, you bastards, he thought. I will find you and you will pay in a very quiet, very painful way.

  Now Michael had to deal with Lady Olivia-the-suspicious. God help him find a way to convince her that they were gone, he was not in league with them and his plan was the wisest course of action.

  He opened the door with considerable caution and stepped inside. “Lady Olivia.”

  “Are they gone for good?”

  “Yes.” He looked up to the loft where she was still waiting.

  “Why did you not apprehend them, Mr. Garrett?”

  “For several reasons. One, my first responsibility is to see you home safely. Second, I am not sure that your brother will want to advertise this with a trial. I am sure he has his own ways of seeing that justice is done.” Michael walked to the base of the ladder waiting for her next round of questions.

  She was quiet. A moment later she leaned over the edge of the loft and looked around the room.

  “Did you recognize them, Lady Olivia?”

  “One voice. I was blindfolded, remember? Only the one man spoke. The better dressed of the two.”

  “That would be Mr. Smith.”

  “His name means nothing to me, but I will never forget that man’s voice.” She sat back on her heels. “The one with the nasty expression. As if he was too aware of his seat at the servant’s table.”

  “Or too fastidious to talk to a farmer more than was absolutely necessary.” Michael walked over to the window. “I could have offered them a king’s dinner and they still would have left after I told them about the ghost.”

  “They went off to find me?”

  “Yes. They must have something to report to the man who orchestrated this.” He should not have said that. Better not to remind her, when he was sure that Olivia’s own memories were so hard to ignore. “Or it could be that they are afraid I will try to catch up with them and explain why I think my uncle’s planting methods are superior to his neighbor’s.”

  She made a rusty sound that he realized was laughter. He walked to the bottom of the ladder again so he was sure she could hear him.

  “Enoch Ballthur was a deliberate ruse, Olivia. I had the measure of them right away and knew a farmer from the Riding would be good for information and nothing else. The last thing we want is their company on our trip back.”

  The possibility wiped the smile from her face. He felt small for doing it, but she needed to remember that the danger was not over.

  13

  AS OLIVIA LEANED farther from her perch, Michael noticed that she was not wearing his greatcoat. The first two buttons of his shirt were undone and he could see more of her sweet bosom than was modest. He didn’t say a word and enjoyed the view.

  “How did you know all that about farming? You were in the army. Not only that but you sounded like a Yorkshire farmer. Even the way you stood. If you met them again as Michael Garrett I do not think they would recognize you.”

  Finally she was impressed with something. His acting ability. Too damn close to lying to suit him. “I made most of it up. But my
father had me read Coke’s book on farming when he still had hopes that I would stay on in Sussex. I was able to recall some of the terms.”

  “If you are sure they have left and will never come back, I will come down.”

  Her girlish words were completely at odds with the marvelous body his shirt was barely covering. His shirt had never known such pleasure.

  “Will you catch your greatcoat? I cannot negotiate the ladder in it.”

  He caught his coat and waited.

  “Turn around, Mr. Garrett. I am not about to show you my legs. You have already seen quite enough of me.”

  “All of you, as a matter of fact, though I was far more inclined to cover you up and save your life than to look my fill.”

  He felt something hit his ankle as he walked to the side of the room. One of his gloves fell to the floor beside him.

  “I was aiming for your head,” she explained, “because you are not being a gentleman at the moment.”

  “Lady Olivia?” He smiled, not at all a gentleman.

  “Yes.” The one word was full of caution.

  “The gentleman in me has won out over the rogue and feels compelled to advise you to fasten the top two buttons of my shirt.”

  “Oh!”

  The word was like a screech and the other glove hit his shoulder.

  “Your aim is improving but you will need much more practice.”

  When the creaks from the ladder stopped he held out the greatcoat with his back still from her, hoping she would not throw anything heavier than a glove at him.

  “Did you find out where they were going?”

  She was all business now. He turned. Dressed as she was, it was no wonder he had a hard time thinking of her as an adult. With his greatcoat a dozen sizes too big for her, she had the look of child playing with adult clothes.

  “What is the matter?” She looked down as if she had missed a button or her knees were showing.

  “Nothing at all. I have just decided that I will keep that greatcoat forever.”

  She blushed and wrinkled her nose, smiling at the floor. It was just as well he had not felt the full force of it. Even reflected off the wood planks, he was dazzled.

  Michael covered his eyes for a minute and tried to recall what they had been talking about. “Those two men will eventually return to Pennsford.”

  She stiffened. He had her complete attention. He was sorry to see her smile disappear.

  “There can be no argument now, Lady Olivia.” He gentled his voice. “I will stay with you until I am confident that you are safe.”

  “All right.” She nodded several times.

  “I will keep the gun and have it loaded.” He patted his pocket. “Those men will die before I let them harm you again.”

  “All right.”

  What had he done to earn such easy agreement? Oh, yes, put her in the presence of the two men who had taken her and threatened her life. It was mean-spirited of him, to invite them inside. But it had worked. She understood that he was on her side.

  He went outside ahead of her and brought Troy to the bench near the front door, a convenient enough mounting block.

  Lady Olivia patted Troy, giving the horse the last chunk of her apple, which would most likely guarantee friendship for life.

  “You did a fine job of acting yourself, Lady Olivia. The crying was very effective.” He came to her side in the event she needed help.

  “Yes, I tried to cry the way ‘a hefty cow’ would.” She continued to pat Troy and did not look at him.

  “What was I supposed to say?” Michael waited until she faced him, her eyes inviting an explanation she could belittle. “What would you have had me tell them? That you were round and soft in all the right places, with an elegant leg and dainty feet, and a face that is as lovely as a Madonna?”

  “Now you are talking nonsense.” Her cheeks turned more pink but that was the only sign that she was flattered. She stepped back and checked the saddle straps.

  “I beg your pardon, my lady.” His indignation was halfhearted. He put his hand on the saddle so that she was tucked between him and Troy. “I see that no one ever taught you how to take a compliment.”

  “Oh yes, they have.” She finished her perfunctory check of the tack and gave him her complete attention. “Allow me to show you, Mr. Garrett.”

  It was her turn to smile. In a way that was not at all girlish. She raised her hand, and positioned it as if holding a fan. Her eyes were filled with invitation. She moved as if to curtsy. “Why, thank you, Mr. Garrett. You are irresistible when you are charming.”

  “And you are irresistible even when you are irritating and stubborn and barefoot.” He was the one who took a step back this time. “God knows why.”

  “That may be nonsense, too, Mr. Garrett.” She closed the space between them. “Still it feels amazingly like flirting.”

  “Tell me, how does flirting feel?” As if he didn’t know.

  “As though I must step closer.” She took another step. “And closer. So that I can look deeply into your eyes and see if you mean what you are saying. Touch your heart”—she raised a hand—“and know what you are feeling.”

  The touch of her hand was so enticing that he was tempted to show her how irresistible she was. God knew this was not the time or the place. Not that there ever would be one. Instead he shook his head and moved around to the other side of the mounting block. It was as far away as he could go without appearing a complete coward. He raised a hand to his forehead and rubbed it for a moment, with his thumb resting on his cheekbone. “I can tell you this, my lady. You are trouble. It is one word I will always associate with you.”

  “Now, that is a compliment, Mr. Garrett.” Her smile grew to a grin. “Thank you for it, sir. Indeed, I live to trouble you. Waking, sleeping and all the moments in between.”

  She meant it. Her eyes did not lie.

  Climbing onto Troy, she began the complicated process of making herself as comfortable as she could, spreading the greatcoat under her and fixing it so that it wrapped around her legs: “I ask you, sir, what woman does not want to complicate a man’s life? Even I, with only one London Season, understand that.”

  “You’ve already had a London Season?” He swallowed the next sentence: No one snapped you up? And changed it to “Why are you not there now?”

  “One was entirely enough, thank you. I enjoyed it, mind you. Viscount Bendasbrook always had something outrageous planned. Lord Ellinger was very attentive. Too attentive.”

  She fussed with his greatcoat as though it were the most elegant of riding habits. “It is so completely different from Pennsford: the parties and the art exhibits and the chance to observe Lyn in Parliament. My sister-in-law—the duchess—” she explained, “was the perfect chaperone.”

  “The duke is married?”

  “Yes, but Rowena is increasing and the physician insists that she not travel. Her health is very delicate. She agreed to stay in London when Lyn had to come back here, but then she insisted that Rexton, their son, stay with her. So Lyn is without them and, I think, misses them so much.”

  “So Her Grace was the perfect chaperone?”

  “Oh yes, though we did spend more time than I would like at poetry readings.”

  “If you enjoyed it so much why was one enough?”

  “It was too long away from the kitchen.”

  Lady Olivia Pennistan spoke as though all the young women making their bow would deplore time away from the kitchen.

  “All right,” she continued, “I was able to talk with Monsieur Carême, the Regent’s chef. But for the most part Rowena would not allow me to speak to any of the others. It hardly mattered. Most of the food was conventional or not catered properly. Some of it was completely unpalatable.”

  “You certainly appear to be fascinated with the kitchen. Not the usual salon for a lady.”

  He could see she took offense at his statement, and he had not even meant to bait her.

  “Everyone say
s that I ‘spend too much time in the kitchen.’” She spoke the phrase in a high-pitched voice. “Mr. Garrett, I tell you what I tell them: I don’t give a fig for people who do not understand that food is about more than approving insipid menus.” She took up the reins. “Why are we sitting here jabbering? Should we not be on our way?”

  “We have time, Lady Olivia. I am happy to let those two travel well ahead of us.”

  “If that is so, why did you let me mount Troy?” She made a face at him but did not wait for an answer. “Here is what you must understand: Food is the key to peace and contentment, whether it be in Napoleon’s court or a Yorkshire farmer’s kitchen. Monsieur Carême and I agree on that.”

  “I thought Carême worked for Talleyrand.”

  “You know him?” Her didactic look and tone disappeared. Her eyes lit up as though a cook, albeit a famous cook, were the king.

  “I met him one or twice when I was in Paris.” He could see he had risen seriously in her estimation. He was not about to tell her that her favorite chef was suspected in some circles of being a spy. How strange that these two very distinct aspects of their lives should dovetail in one man.

  “Did you ever meet Monsieur Beauvilliers?” Olivia leaned down as if she desperately wanted to hear his answer.

  “Is he another chef?”

  “Yes.” She straightened in the saddle. “Almost as wonderful as Carême, with different skills. Lynford found his L’Art de Cuisinier for me last year. It is quite a remarkable book, not only for the recipes. He discusses all aspects of food. How to shop, plan and manage the kitchen.”

  “I do know that when Carême swore his loyalty to Talleyrand there were those who suggested that kidnapping would be the only way to lure him from Paris. Could that be something you two have in common?”

  He meant it as a joke, but when she paled he could tell that it was a subject she did not see any humor in. “I am sorry, Lady Olivia. It was thoughtless of me to bring up that comparison.”

  “It is just as well, Mr. Garrett. I can only avoid the truth for so long. Once I am home I will have to deal with it.” She shifted in the saddle. “Help me down, will you? If we are not yet ready to leave we have time for you to tell me your plan.”