by Fran Baker
Indignation crossed over her face and she responded with a touch of asperity, “Oh, there is nothing at all I wish to say to you, believe me!”
Laughing, Vincent drew slowly near. “Indeed, I do not doubt you in the least, little one. But I suspect we shall deal rather better together if you cease throwing me such dagger-looks.”
Antiqua opened her mouth to refute this accusation, but abruptly shut it as she realized things were not progressing as she had intended they should.
“Much better,” he approved in a voice which made her hand itch to slap him. “By way of making amends, may I say you look enchanting tonight?”
This compliment was no less than the truth, for Antiqua was indeed looking lovely. The simple white empire gown set off her slender figure and dark hair to admiration, while the pale blue cashmere shawl draped round her shoulders added a touch of flattering hue.
“Thank you,” she murmured, just as she ought.
It appeared that conversation, if left to Antiqua, would lag. Mr. Vincent, however, seemed disposed to peacemaking, for he smiled most engagingly and appealed to her, “Confess, my dear! Just how many broken hearts did you leave behind in—Atterberry, was it?”
A light blush shaded her cheeks. Still young enough to respond warmly to any masculine flattery, Antiqua was not proof against the extremely charming look and tone accompanying his words. Though she tried to hold onto it, her hostility began to fade.
“Arrberry,” she corrected.
“Ah, yes. Arrberry. I am filled with sympathy for the legion of brokenhearted lads in Arrberry.”
She attempted to keep from smiling, but his light teasing was too much for her and the corners of her mouth curved up.
“You led me to infer this morning that your father had died,” he said, turning serious now. “But is your mother still there?”
“No, Mother died when I was nine. Since Father’s family has never indicated the least desire to even see me, I decided to accept the offer of my mother’s sister to make my home with her family. I doubt if I’ll ever see Arrberry again,” she ended on a small unguarded sigh.
Coming up behind her, Vincent leaned over the back of the settee, so close that Antiqua could feel his breath gently stir tendrils of her hair. A fingertip brushed the curve of her cheek. She turned her head to face him. His expression was noncommittal and yet she felt oddly affected by him.
“And do the Cotswolds mean so much to you?” he asked.
It seemed he was capable of affecting her in many ways, too many ways, for now she felt a longing which for no accountable reason she wished him to share. Somewhat unsteadily, she replied, “The steep hills, the beautiful beechwoods, the rivers and streams are—well, home. It’s familiar and lovely. It’s what I’ve always known, you see.”
“Yes, I do see.”
Something about the tone of his voice prompted her to inquire, “Do you feel attached to one certain place, Mr. Vincent?”
For a moment, she thought he did not mean to answer her, but after a lengthy pause, he said, “I cannot claim it as ‘home,’ but yes, there is one place that means to me what other places cannot. And now, my dear, I believe I should offer you a glass of ratafia . . . to promote your lagging appetite.”
“My appetite?”
He smiled at her bewilderment. “Fully five minutes or more have passed without your once taking so much as a nibble.”
Antiqua wished with all her heart he would not tease her so. It was too delightful, and she was quite certain it was unpatriotic of her to feel delighted by him. Whenever she felt like this, it was nearly impossible for her to accept that he was the sort of man who dealt in treachery.
Telling herself sternly that he was precisely that sort of man, she watched closely as he poured a small portion of a golden cordial into a glass, then a more full-bodied wine liberally into another. Though he moved with his usual fluid grace, she sensed an underlying tension within him and wondered at the cause for it. Had he discovered her possession of the packet? Could he be planning further nefarious intrigues?
He held out the ratafia. She reached for the glass, and her fingers briefly grazed his. Liquid leapt up the sides of the crystal as she quickly snatched her hand away. She tried to hide her embarrassment behind a smile of sweet confusion, tried to dispel the unnerving effect of that mere touch by turning her attention to the wine. She was, however, vividly aware of his movement as he came to stand beside the crackling fire dancing in the grate. To her vast relief, he began amiably discussing the continued rainy weather and carried on a light conversation through the succulent meal which followed their aperitifs.
So agreeable was Vincent, in fact, that Antiqua quite relaxed, forgetting for a time that her charming companion was her enemy. The aroma of good food filled the air and the patter of rain upon the windows soothed away all doubts. Her sense of warm contentment lasted until the moment when, after the turtle soup, fillet of sole, roast fowl and oyster had been cleared away and a blanc mange set before her, he dismissed the servants.
A second bottle of wine had been left at his elbow. Pouring himself a glass, Vincent leaned back in his chair and slowly drank. He stretched his long legs out before him, causing his muscles to strain against the brown knit of his dress pantaloons, while he propped his elbow upon the thin scroll-arm of the chair and dropped his lids half-way over his eyes, affecting his most sleepy look. Swaying candle flames shimmered over his dark hair as he tilted his head to press the etched crystal to his lips.
Of all this Antiqua was violently aware. She tried to concentrate on her dessert, on the lacing of the tablecloth, on anything other than how disturbingly attractive she found this man. But she was unable to stop herself from staring at his long fingers as they casually twirled the crystal stem of his glass. Suddenly, she recalled the feel of his fingers about her slender neck and a strange longing welled up within her.
Fresh doubts assailed her. Could she be wrong? Could Allen have meant someone else? More than anything, she wished she were. Then an unwanted vision of Vincent’s deadly intensity when facing Lord Balstone appeared before her eyes. Mentally chiding herself, Antiqua told herself that until she knew who he was, what he was, she would do well to remember that vision.
“I trust that you are as tired of Calais as I, my dear,” he said without warning, “for I intend we should leave in the morning.”
Startled, she sought something to say. “You have arranged our passage?” she managed.
“Not precisely,” he replied over his wine.
The teasing note was back in his voice. She raised her eyes to his. The sapphire clarity took her breath away.
“All is readiness for us to sail tomorrow, weather permitting,” he told her. “After awaiting me for the last year, the Blue Angel seems as eager as I to return to England.”
“The Blue Angel?” she questioned, not understanding.
“We sail on my own ship, Brown-eyes.”
“Oh, how exciting!” she exclaimed. “I’ve never before sailed on a private ship. And no one, sir, could be more eager than I to reach England,” she added truthfully.
Vincent stared deep into his wine for a silent moment before raising his gaze. “I must confess that I am curious as to why, when you were going to live with your aunt in Paris, you should suddenly turn around—in the middle of the night—in Amiens.”
Hot spots of color bloomed on her cheeks. He had spoken in a voice of velvet, yet Antiqua understood that he would have an answer. Unable to meet his penetrating gaze, she stared steadfastly upon the fringe of her shawl.
“I, um, I heard from a—a sick friend,” she said, making it up as she went along. “And I—I decided I must hurry home to—”
“To Arrberry?”
“Yes, and—”
“And yet you still doubt of ever seeing Arrberry again?”
The taunting tone rang clear. A swift glance to his cool face told her Vincent was enjoying her discomfiture. Being of a veridical nature, such li
es did not come easily to Antiqua. She sat wordlessly nonplussed. After a vast pause which seemed to her to last a lifetime, a flash of inspiration saved her.
“What I meant, sir,” she said quite brightly, “was that my friend is from Arrberry, but she awaits me now in Dover.”
“Your friend must be a close one, indeed, for you to rush off to her in the dead of night with a total stranger,” he remarked blandly.
“She is absolutely my dearest friend,” Antiqua declared with emphasis. “In fact,” she embellished grandly, “Miss Susan Sullivan is like a sister to me.”
Miss Sullivan was, in fact, the elder sister of the local parson in Arrberry and though the grey-haired lady would have been greatly flattered at the sisterly affection so movingly expressed by Miss Greybill, she would have been equally as surprised at such a description.
“And I must, of course, hasten to her side in her hour of need,” Antiqua finished gallantly, quoting word-for-word a line from the last Minerva Novel she had read.
“Of course, I can only hope we do not reach Miss Sullivan’s side too late,” Vincent agreed easily, once again setting his glass to his lips.
“We?” Antiqua bleated.
He drank before he spoke. “As husband and wife, we shall naturally visit your dearest friend together.”
She felt the blood drain from her face. “H-husband and . . . and w-wife?” she stammered in disbelief.
To her, it seemed an eternity as Vincent drank the rest of his wine. Finally, he placed the empty crystal down upon the lace and inquired, “Surely, my dear, you have seen the necessity for our immediate nuptials?”
“No, I do not see—”
“You have now been traveling under my protection—alone—for more than long enough to ruin your good name, Miss Greybill,” he said in a severe tone. “One glance at you this morning was sufficient to inform me that there could be only one possible remedy for this situation, and that is a wedding without delay.”
Staggered by his presumption that she would actually marry him, Antiqua could only stare wordlessly at him.
He searched her whitened face and then stretched out a hand to brush a wayward strand of hair off her face. “I was unable to discover any English clergy currently in Calais, but I can rectify the wrong I have done you once we reach Dover.”
Finally making a recovery, she shrank away from his touch. “There’s not the least need for us to get married, sir,” she insisted. “You’ve done me no wrong. Why, no one even knows that I’ve been traveling with you . . .”
Her voice faded into a teeming silence.
“Someone, I collect, does know?”
“I . . . wrote my Aunt Yvonne . . .”
“Why is it,” Vincent asked of his freshly filled glass, “that women must invariably write a letter?”
“Even so, I do not see that there is the need for such a drastic step as our marriage,” she said resolutely.
“Your Tante Yvonne aside, little one, there is, in the eyes of the world, every need,” he pointed out. “You cannot have forgotten Lord Balstone? Such a blow to his vanity, my dear.”
The lift of his lips seemed to scoff at her. She set her full mouth in a stubborn line. “But I do not wish to marry you!”
Vincent heaved a sigh. “My dear Miss Greybill, you cannot possibly imagine that this is what I should wish for either. Marriage with a chit barely out of the schoolroom”—he ignored her incensed objection to continue calmly—“does not amuse me, I assure you. But marriage it must—and shall—be.”
“I know you mean well, Mr. Vincent,” she conceded, “and I thank you for the honor you are bestowing—”
“Please spare me the proprieties!” he cut in sharply. “Your refusal is useless in any case. We shall be wed. Afterwards, you may go your own way and so long as you are discreet, I give you my word I shall not be too inquisitive a husband.”
The commanding tone annoyed her. “I am not marrying you!” she snapped.
“No?”
The lazy inquiry coupled with the barest arching of one dark brow had the effect of bringing an angry sheen to Antiqua’s eyes and a bright patch to each of her cheeks. “You cannot force me to marry you! If you stand me up before a parson, I shall stamp and scream,” she threatened with false confidence.
“You may stamp and scream all you wish, my girl, but you will still be wedded.” Vincent shrugged. “Whatever else may be said of me, it shall not be said that I am an abductor of innocents.”
“But you did not abduct me,” she reminded him. “I asked to come with you.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “My dear Brown-eyes, what actually happened does not matter at all. It is how it is perceived which counts. And I intend that ours shall be perceived as a match of the most romantical.”
The man was mad. Or . . . her gaze fell to the bottle standing beside his glass. It was now empty. Understanding crept into her eyes, and she forbore telling him that theirs would not be perceived as any such thing, for she would not make a match with him under any circumstances.
Instead, she braced her elbows upon the tabletop and, resting her chin atop the flat of her palms, inquired with lively interest, “Are you foxed, sir?”
A frown passed through his blue eyes.
Disregarding his reaction, she continued, “I must say, you don’t look the least bit castaway, but that is quite the second bottle of wine you have emptied, you know. My father would have been thoroughly disguised by the end of the first.”
“It is generally understood, my love, that I am not cup-shot until after the third bottle,” he coolly explained.
“You must be deep-cut, if you think to marry me.”
At this pronouncement, Vincent pushed back his chair and stood. “It’s time you retire. We leave early tomorrow and I’ll not be kept waiting while you sleep.”
With a hand lightly, but firmly, under her elbow, he guided her across the room, then paused at the door. By some trick of the wavering candlelight, his expression appeared softened. She swallowed in nervous anticipation as he placed two fingers beneath the curve of her chin and tilted her head up. She felt his feathery touch as heavily as if he were gripping her, locking her within his hold, and she thought, she tried not to hope, he would kiss her. Her lips quivered.
Vincent studied her shadowed eyes, her trembling mouth and felt an unexpected desire heat up within him. His face darkened as he cursed his own lack of control. She was an innocent! He would do what he knew he must, but he had not lost all honor during his years of reckless living. He would not take advantage of this naive young lady. He withdrew his fingers from the softness of her skin.
“Do not worry,” he said, his voice oddly roughened. “I shall make no husbandly demands upon you. I offer you only the protection of my name, such as it is.”
Not trusting her voice, Antiqua returned no reply before slipping quickly up the stairs. She shut the door of her chamber hard, but that failed to shut out the image of his handsome face. She leaned against the wood and tried frantically to understand why his merest touch, look, presence could so disconcert her. She berated herself for responding to his practiced charm and reminded herself that spies must be very learned in the art of making love to a woman. No doubt he merely meant to retrieve the information he knew she possessed, even if he had to wed her to get it. The thought burst upon her as wildly as her pounding pulse, and her ready temper exploded.
That she had nearly forgotten his perfidy in the face of his overwhelming attraction added shame to her fury, increasing it to a white heat. Antiqua vowed to never again succumb to his charm, be it ever so beguiling. She would outwit him, she would!
“Why, Miss, whatever are you frowning for?”
Antiqua focused on her maid standing near the bed. “That man—that man means to marry me!” she announced in a voice filled with loathing.
“I knew him for a right one,” Lucy said with a shrewd nod of her becapped head.
“Are you mad?” Antiqua demanded, no
w thoroughly incensed. Striding angrily forth, she released her pent-up emotions. “Depend upon it, Lucy, he means to serve me some trick! And do not be looking down your nose like that. Oh, he made some very pretty speeches about protecting my name and saving my reputation—such a very chivalrous murderer, is he not?—but it must be that he has learned, or he suspects, that Allen gave his papers into my keeping. Perhaps he actually would marry me in an attempt to wrest them from me. I certainly would not put any wicked, devious idea past him!”
“That’s as may be, Miss,” Lucy said as she collected shawl, ribbon and dress from the floor where Antiqua had strewn them in her wrath. “But you can’t deny as how Master Vincent is in the right of it.”
Before she disappeared into a voluminous flannel nightdress, Antiqua’s mutinously extended lower lip indicated that she could, indeed, deny just that.
“You spent a full night alone with the gentleman—”
“He’s no gentleman!” came a muffled objection.
“—in his coach, and no one there to say nothing more’n words passed atween you.”
“But, indeed, there wasn’t!” Antiqua’s head emerged through the top of her nightdress and she resumed her energetic pacing.
“Yes, Miss, and so I believe. But how many fancy folk—them as don’t know your accidental ways o’ fallin’ into trouble as well as me—how many of them do you think will believe that?”
The hostile striding ceased; an arrested expression covered Antiqua’s face. She subsided onto a chair and meekly allowed Lucy to brush out her hair. The methodic stroking seemed to massage her soul, for at length she said placidly, “I cannot marry such a man, no matter how ostracized I may be, Lucy. I really don’t believe he wants to be wedded either, but needs to control me because of the information I possess. We’ll simply carry on with our original plan and escape from Vincent once he has landed us in England.”
Misgiving figured largely in Lucy’s reception of this scheme, but Antiqua no longer evidenced the desire for argumentation. She was taken up with visions of bringing Vincent to his knees. A thrilling sense of excitement coursed through her as she crawled over the top of a quilted coverlet to press herself into a mound of awaiting pillows. To best an infamous traitor would indeed be exhilarating!
