Miss Antiqua's Adventure

by Fran Baker

  After setting the packet on her bed, Antiqua rapidly shed her own nightclothes and stepped into a rumpled blue muslin gown which she had worn all day in the coach. She did not bother to button the high neck nor the tight cuffs of the long sleeves, but returned immediately to Allen’s side.

  She ripped the hem from her discarded nightgown and then used the strip of linen to tightly bind the cap over Mr. Allen’s wound. The flow of blood had turned to a mere trickle, but she saw from the pallor of his face that he had lost too much. The skin stretched tautly over the bones of his face, pain dimmed the light of his eyes. He would not live much longer, she realized, and she knew a pang of sorrow. It occurred to her that she would mourn for the passing of this stranger, perhaps even more so than she had for the passing of her rogue of a father six months ago.

  Not without voicing numerous objections, Lucy was at length persuaded to help lift Mr. Allen. Between them, the two young women managed to stagger down the narrow stairway with their heavy burden, though Allen sagged from their arms at the landing. Eventually they were able to regain a clumsy hold of him, then drunkenly progressed to his chamber. Fortune favored them with an absence of witnesses to their labors, a fact duly praised by the vocally disapproving Lucy.

  As soon as they had deposited Allen upon his bed, where he lay struggling for each breath, Antiqua lit candles and set about doing what she could to ease the dying man’s sufferings. Lucy begrudgingly helped her remove his cloak, then poured water from the pitcher on the nearby commode into the ewer and carried it to her mistress. Antiqua dampened a handkerchief she had extracted from one of his pockets, and dismissed her maid as she began to lightly wet his dry lips and bathe his temples.

  “Go start packing up our things, Lucy,” she ordered. “Do not be giving me further argumentation—you must see that we cannot delay! Whoever tried to stop Mr. Allen from delivering his information will surely attempt to stop us as well. We must be away. Now go!”

  Lucy gave it as her opinion that they’d have been better off if Mr. Allen had indeed been stopped. A fulminating glare from Antiqua sent her out the door, muttering that she should have known better than to travel to nasty, barbarian foreign lands where strangers fell into your room in the middle of the night without so much as a by-your-leave.

  Left alone with Allen, Antiqua sat quietly by his side, swathing his forehead with the dampened cloth and striving to be patient. There were so many questions to be answered and so little time to ask them, but she knew she must wait until he had regained some of the strength he had lost in the exertion of moving to his room. Dimly, she was aware of activity in the corridor beyond the door, unusual for so late at night, but she gave it little notice as she continued to wait. For her, life had become some out-of-focus dream in which only the shadows flickering eerily over Allen’s ashen face stood out with clarity.

  Several times she thought this must in truth be a dream. She had not wanted to go to an unknown life in Paris and thus her mind had conjured up this fantastic mission to return her to the England she so dearly loved. Each rattling breath the English agent drew, however, told Antiqua it was no dream.

  How much time passed by, she had no way of knowing, but at last Allen’s eyes opened. His breath came in short gasps.

  She bent forward eagerly. “Please, sir, I must know what this is all about.”

  “Be careful,” he warned, coughing and panting and speaking in low spurts. “Bonapartists . . . plan Napoleon’s escape . . . from St. Helena . . .”

  “What is in the packet?”

  “Details . . .”

  His face was now utterly without color, his breathing ragged once more. Leaning closer still, Antiqua inquired intensely, “But to whom shall I take the packet? And who did this to you?”

  “My brother . . . William . . .” Allen shook with his attempt to catch hold of a breath.

  “But who did this to you?” Antiqua questioned again in a quaking voice which sounded foreign to her own ears.

  Rivulets of sweat coursed his face as he strained to reply. “English traitors . . . you must . . . be careful . . . beware Vi—”

  A wracking cough convulsed his body. Blood discolored the corner of his mouth. The spasm left him lying weak against the pillow.

  Antiqua tenderly wiped the ugly stain away from his lip. “Do not worry, sir, I shall be most careful. Your message shall be delivered to your brother, I promise you,” she vowed with a confidence she did not feel. “Rest now.”

  She wondered against whom he had been about to warn her and wondered, too, how she would get back to England, where and how she would ever find his brother once she got there. But being an optimist at heart, Antiqua left those problems to work themselves out at a later time. She bent toward him, about to question him further, but discovered that it would be no use. Thomas Allen had been released from his pain. In repose, the suffering erased from his face, he looked absurdly youthful. Antiqua trembled with a sense of loss.

  Closing his eyes, she removed the cap-bandage from his side and said a quick prayer for him. She silently promised to carry his message on for him so that his death would not have been in vain. Then she blew out the candles and with a sad, small sigh, stepped into the passageway and quietly closed the door.

  Chapter 3

  A door opened behind her. She spun guiltily about. Across the narrow width of the corridor stood a man wearing a many-caped greatcoat and black pantaloons. The faint light of the hall lantern haloed him like some dark angel.

  Eyes bluer than the Thames in June burned from a face that might have been carved from stone. His hair was more black than brown, his brows equally dark, and his nose was high-bridged above a mouth that promised either cruelty or intense sexuality. Or both. That thought made her throat go dry.

  Folding his arms over his chest, the stranger leaned his shoulder against the door frame, apparently disposed to remain staring at this unexpected petite vision with the shapely figure curving only where it ought. Antiqua read the insult in the gaze arrogantly raking over her, and a fierce flush spread across her cheeks. Still, she stood her ground, enduring his stare and trying to face him down, despite the certain knowledge that she was doomed to failure.

  His bold scrutiny made her acutely and uncomfortably aware of the way in which waves of thick chestnut hair framed her face in abandoned dishevelment. She knew a wish that she had had time to dress properly and could only hope he had not noted the state of disarray of her attire. That hoped died as a wickedly suggestive smile touched his lips.

  “It appears monsieur le tuteur has spent a more pleasant evening than I,” he observed in flawless French.

  The nature of his comment passed unnoticed for Antiqua’s gaze had traveled to the huge servant standing behind the presumptuous man. Her eyes widened as she saw he carried a pair of portmanteaux in each hand. This man was leaving the hotel! Even should he be traveling on to Paris, it would be better, far better, than to remain in Amiens. She realized instantly that this was a gift from Providence, and she did not intend to let it slip past her.

  Her attention returned to the dark-clad man. “Oh, please, monsieur, are you leaving Amiens?” she asked in passable French.

  Monsieur saw a pair of enormous velvet brown eyes turned upward in mute appeal. Ignoring the urgent plea in those lovely eyes, he lowered his gaze to her full red lips, lips which bespoke a passionate promise, then lower still to the gentle swell beneath the crumpled gown. She stirred nervously under his study, and he caught the wisp of honeysuckle scent.

  “Ah . . . oui, mademoiselle,” he replied with a slight quirk of those sensuous lips. “May I perhaps be of some service?”

  The tone was insolent. His eyes were those of a predator as they fixed upon the unbuttoned neck of her gown. She felt branded where his cool gaze raked across the creamy hint of her breasts. Blushing more keenly still, Antiqua forced herself to remain calm. Clearly, his behavior was an insult. Under ordinary circumstances she would have taken offense. But circums
tances were far from ordinary. This was a matter of life and death. The information which had cost Thomas Allen his life made it imperative that she leave Amiens without delay. She could not afford to spurn such an opportunity.

  With a halting effort, she answered, “Yes. That is, I should like to go with you.”

  “Should you indeed?” A tiny ripple of sarcasm ran through his question.

  “Sir, I do not think—” began the manservant, to be silenced with a quelling look.

  “I—I would gladly pay for the journey, monsieur,” she stammered. “I’ve not much money, but—”

  “Ma chérie, there is no need. I should be delighted to take you up,” he drawled.

  He straightened and extended a hand. Antiqua stared at it in horror. Undoubtedly, Monsieur meant far more than a mere insult. She opened her mouth to put him firmly in his place when he added in a drowsy voice, “We are bound for Calais, but it shall be my pleasure to convey you wherever you wish to go.”

  At the magic mention of Calais, all thought of informing Monsieur soundly that she would rather walk than accept such an offer evaporated. To be taken as far as Calais! Nothing could be more perfect. If the security of England, not to mention the whole of Europe, rested upon her having to masquerade briefly as a member of the muslin set, then Antiqua Greybill was prepared to make the sacrifice.

  “Merci, Monsieur. Calais is precisely where I wish to go. It will take me but a moment to collect my things.” She turned toward the stair.

  The gentleman’s hand remained outstretched. “Come. My man will see to your things.”

  “But—but I need my cloak—”

  “You shall have mine, ma chérie.” So saying, he removed his coat and threw it over her shoulders, ignoring the reproachful glare of his servant as he wrapped her in its heavy warmth.

  Antiqua had no choice. To demur further could only annoy him and if he chose not to take her with him, she had no idea what she could do. The way to Paris had been paid by her Tante Yvonne and Antiqua knew the meager sum reposing in her reticule would not get her beyond the first post-stop. She therefore surrendered her hand into Monsieur’s keeping.

  His touch, like his manner, was cool. She could not understand the surge of warmth which coursed through her. She stared at her hand within his, as if it might explain her odd reaction.

  Outside the brisk night air rushed at her and the bright full moon cast spectral shadows in unearthly array. Antiqua pushed her hair back out of her eyes with her free hand as she hurried to keep pace with her—what, benefactor or captor? Not for the first time, she wondered if she were not actually still lying upon her poster bed and this was some hideous dream from which she could not awaken.

  She surreptitiously examined the profile just above her head. It was an aristocratic profile, and like his clothes, his stance, his very air, it proclaimed wealth and breeding and the arrogance that came with same. Though his clasp was light, a virile strength lay beneath his fingertips and she unreasonably wished she could let this man go on to Calais without her.

  Two large traveling carriages stood waiting, along with what seemed to her to be a small army of servants. If any of these were surprised that Monsieur had appeared with a young lady, they were too well-trained to show it. Nonetheless, Antiqua felt grateful for the loan of Monsieur’s coat, and sank her head as deeply into the folds of the capes as possible as she was guided toward the first of the luxurious coaches. She hoped the valet would not be long in following with Lucy, for she was decidedly uncomfortable alone with the aloof, yet somehow arousing, gentleman. He handed her up into the carriage, then climbed in lithely behind her. The door closed and instantly the vehicle lurched forward, causing his cloak to slip from her shoulders.

  “Monsieur!” Antiqua cried in alarm. “We cannot leave! My—my clothes—my maid—”

  “You must learn, my dear, to have more faith in Fawkes,” he said as he calmly repossessed himself of her hand in a grip hard as iron, but much more pleasant. “He shall attend to it, I assure you.”

  He had spoken in English even more impeccable than his perfect French. Antiqua turned her wide brown eyes directly upon him. “But you’re not French” she accused.

  “Ah . . . no,” he admitted. “I am English. I did not think I could bear your—forgive me, dear heart—your wretched attempts at French any longer.”

  “I have been told, sir, that my French is very creditable,” she said coldly.

  “Whoever told you so, sweeting, was being kind. Monsieur le tuteur, perhaps?”

  The shadows hid his expression, but the husky depth of this last remark brought Antiqua to a renewed realization of the danger of her situation. Her stomach began to churn with a sinking dread. She tried to regain her hand.

  She was unsuccessful. With a mocking smile, he brought her unwilling hand to his lips. He lightly stroked her fingertips, sending curious tingles up her arm, then turned her hand and touched the center of her palm with his lips.

  Her body quivered. The intimacy was oddly thrilling. Fighting this, she focused her mind on business. “Do you intend to travel on to England, sir?”

  “You are shivering, my little one. I think perhaps you need warming.” He moved closer.

  Her dress rustled furtively as she tried to scoot away from him without any overt fleeing gestures. “But—but England? Are you going there?”

  “And if I am?” he asked in a low voice that seemed to resonate deep inside her.

  Her heart thudded erratically as she watched his well-toned muscles ripple beneath the tight pantaloons when he moved closer still. “C-could I—I go with you?”

  “Ah . . . now that would, of course, depend.”

  “On w-what?”

  “On tonight, velvet-eyes.” He dropped another kiss upon her palm before finally releasing her hand.

  Her sigh of relief was cut short. The backs of his fingers brushed her cheek as he collected a strand of her unruly chestnut hair. Running the lock through his fingers, he lowered his own dark head to her exposed neck, his mouth seeking the gentle pulse line along the side of her throat. Antiqua jumped slightly away from him. Her hair fell from his fingers as his hand instantly encircled the column of her neck.

  “Why so skittish, chérie?”

  The imperious demand behind his lazy words was not lost upon Antiqua. She attempted to swallow her panic and, frantically calculating the cost of the trip from Calais to Dover, managed a shaky smile. His eyes darkened as they grazed the fullness of her lips and his handsome face exhibited a raw, primeval masculinity that robbed her of breath. It was quite obvious Monsieur was used to having his way with women and even more so that he meant to have his way with her.

  Allowing none of her fear to show, she managed a light titter. “I cannot continue to call you Monsieur. Pray, sir, tell me who you are.”

  “I am Vincent.”

  It was said with the assurance of a man who expects to be known to all and sundry. Nervously running her tongue over her lips, she said stiffly, “You may call me . . . Lucy.”

  “Well, Lucy, mon ange, let me instruct you as I am certain Monsieur le tuteur could not.”

  Before she could realize what he was at, Vincent had circled her slender waist with strong arms, pressing her body to his in an uncompromising embrace. As the muscles in his arms tightened about her, she caught the strong scent of wine in the warm breath which passed over her cheek. Through the carriage window she saw the moonlight whirl over his unkempt hair as his lips bore down on hers.

  Antiqua had never been kissed with anything other than familial affection. The lips now devouring hers—demanding from them, from her—leaving her breathless and weighting her eyelids, were definitely not those of a dutiful kinsman. A dangerous excitement stirred within her, throwing her heart into a flutter while her own lips opened in involuntary response to this delightful new sensation.

  She felt a thrill of surprise when his tongue slipped inside her, bringing all the heat and sleekness of his desire. Rev
eling in the warmth of his strong body against hers, she wrapped her arms about his shoulders and answered his kiss with a daring unlike anything she had ever before exhibited. He sighed into her, giving a short shudder as he dragged his lips away. His tongue teasing her soft skin, he murmured something unintelligible in French at the edge of her mouth.

  Her limited knowledge of the language did not extend to such intimacies, but it made no matter. Even if he had shouted in English, syllable-by-syllable, she would not have understood. Her whole being was concentrated on the leaping of her nerve-endings wherever he was touching her.

  And he was touching her everywhere, running practiced hands over her body in a way that caused her toes to curl. One long finger traced the line of her neck to the point where the first pearl button closed her gown over the slope of her figure. A fiery heat built within her, surging into her middle and down, lower, as his hand lingered, lightly playing with the flesh just above her rapidly rising and falling breasts. Warnings sounded in her mind. She knew she must stop this madness before it was too late.

  “P-please, sir,” she begged on a moan.

  “Patience, little one,” he responded, his voice thickened. “The reward is that much greater for the delay.”

  The heat of his warm, wet mouth seared her skin as his lips whispered along the path of his finger down the length of her neck to her readily displayed charms. His hand cupped her breast and through the thin muslin, she felt his strong fingers pressing into her flesh. Above the frantic pounding of her heart, she heard a purely masculine groan and fear suddenly overwhelmed all her other emotions. Her hands flew to his chest and she struggled wildly to free herself from his exciting embrace.

  “What the devil!” he exclaimed. Catching hold of her wrists, he leaned slightly away to stare at her with a scowl which frightened her as much as his kisses had done. “What’s come over you?”

  “Oh, sir—I am not—I am not well,” she replied tremulously. Indeed, in the moonlight streaming into the carriage, she looked uncommonly pale. “I suffer from—from traveling sickness.”