by Fran Baker
Antiqua digested this pregnant piece of wisdom. She was in no position to disagree in any case, so she gave Lucy her blessing, then watched with a forlorn catch in her throat as her maid walked away. She spent some time jolting, in imitation of Lucy the night before, at every little noise, until her frightening fancies died away and she was left to suffer only boredom laden with impatience. For as long as she could, she shied from reflecting upon what happened, but eventually it had to be faced.
Who fired those shots and why?
It had been no accident. An accident would have ended with the first shot. There could be only one reason for anyone to wish her harm. And only one person had such a reason.
She had not thought he would harm her, but obviously she had been wrong. A sigh shuddered the length of her frame. It hurt far more than her aching ankle, for this was the type of pain that seared the depths of the soul. Self-disgust filled her with bitterness. She had known for days what a villainous scoundrel he was, but she hadn’t truly believed it of him because she didn’t want to believe it. Now she had no choice but to believe, and she felt sad and betrayed and horribly, horribly disappointed.
The turmoil of emotions her meditations roused left her confused and depressed. At length she refused to think any further. Sticking the muff beneath her head, she stared up at the blue sky, wondering when or if she was ever going to wake from the nightmare into which Thomas Allen had plunged her.
* * * *
It was dark when she woke. For the first disquieting seconds Antiqua experienced panic as she tried to place where she was. The chill breeze, the mingled scents of earth and grass, the fur of the muff tickling against her cheek soon oriented her. First she felt relief. Then alarm surged in earnest as she realized Lucy must have been gone for a dreadfully long time.
She sat up and frantically peered through the darkness. There was nothing to be seen. Deep blue layered upon black in the sky while grey layered upon black in the eerie shadows surrounding her. She pushed upward, steeling herself to take a tottering step, but the first pressure upon her swollen ankle brought her down to the grass again. For some seconds, she lay perfectly still. Then all of the trials of the past twenty-four hours became too much to bear. Burying her face in the depths of the soft muff, Antiqua began to cry.
Sobs had turned to sniffles when she heard the footfall beside her. Fright, anger and embarrassment rose up within her and, keeping her face pressed into the fur, Antiqua knuckled the tears from her averted eyes. Finally, she turned and slightly raised her head to take a cautious look.
She beheld a pair of glossy black boots with gold tassels dangling from the tops standing so close she could frost the tips with her breath. Her gaze traveled slowly upward. Above the silhouette of a drab greatcoat, the face was hidden in the opaque night, but moonshine shimmered over the dark hair.
“You!” she cried, her voice shivering with the violent collision of terror and relief.
Chapter 9
Jack Vincent bent and effortlessly scooped Antiqua into his arms. In spite of her fear, she found his warm embrace surprisingly comforting. Her anxiety drained away and, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she leaned gratefully against his shoulder. Tilting her head back to look at his mooncast profile, she saw it blur as without warning he tipped his head and gently tasted the fullness of her upraised lips.
He had kissed her before in lustful passion—warm, moist, heated kisses which sent her senses reeling. This kiss was cool and kind, as if to simply reassure her of his presence. Not pausing to think, Antiqua instinctively parted her lips so that her breath twined with his. Instantly, Vincent’s kiss transformed into a fervent demand, searching the soft depths of her mouth and frightening her in its intensity.
With a low moan, he jerked away from their erupting passion, turned, and began to carry her from the field. He had taken three long strides before Antiqua came out of her daze to react to this abduction. Dear God, had she lost her wits? Just hours before this man had tried to murder her! He’d probably come seeking her corpse and having found her alive, now meant to carry her off to finish the task.
Fisting her hands, she pummeled his chest. “Let me go! Let me go!” she cried, trying in vain to twist free of the firm grip entrapping her.
The annoyance of a man beset by gnats sat briefly upon Vincent’s features as he walked on, his gait unbroken.
“Put me down, you detestable, baseborn scoundrel!”
Her breath was squeezed from her by the abrupt constriction of his clasp as Vincent halted in his tracks. Even through the nebulous light of the moon, she saw the ominous glitter which flashed through his eyes, and she paused before repeating tremulously, “P-put me down.”
“You would, I collect, prefer to remain in this field alone? Very well,” he said as he dumped her unceremoniously into the grass. “Come, Fawkes, it appears Miss Greybill does not desire our company.”
A large form materialized out of the night. Fawkes carried both muff and bandbox and passed her with something akin to sympathy stamped over his homely countenance. With rising fear and disbelief, she watched the pair move swiftly away, leaving her to the silent shadows. The muff, and the packet within, were disappearing with each step they took.
“No! Wait!” she called out in shrill panic.
Vincent walked on, ignoring her plea.
“Please! Please don’t leave me here!”
Dimly, she saw him stop and slowly pivot. He did not raise his voice, yet she heard him most clearly. His tone was chilling. “You will cease to enact me these tedious dramas, Miss Greybill, or I will indeed leave you here.”
She desired nothing so much as to tell him in grand tones to go, but if he went, the packet went with him. And if truth be told, she desired nothing less than to be deserted in an unknown field in the midst of the night. Thus, Antiqua painfully swallowed the heated retort which sprang to her lips. She sat quietly, waiting with bated breath, and was rewarded for her noble restraint.
A series of impatient steps brought him to her. He collected her easily and carried her at a brisk pace to the road. He proceeded toward a distant glimmer, which gradually grew into separate pools of lamplight, giving shape to the chaise from which they hung.
The sight of the coach caused Antiqua to suffer a fresh wave of apprehension. Where Vincent was taking her or what he meant to do with her, she could only imagine. It occurred to her that if he had indeed attempted to shoot her that afternoon—and who else would have cause to do so?—then it was odd that he should not simply have murdered her in the field.
Wondering, she cast a surreptitious glance up at Vincent’s face and drew in a sharp breath. She had seen those handsome features reflect boredom, amusement, tenderness, and, remembering his encounter with Balstone, even danger. But the face now faintly illuminated in the lantern light was set like stone, with the mouth grimly compressed, and she felt more fearful than she had yet done in his presence.
Vincent chanced then to look down at her and Antiqua recoiled. It was the look of a man who held one in contempt. Her throat tightened and, try as she would to stop them, tears flooded her eyes. She averted her head, but need not have done so. Vincent had not seen his effect for his gaze had swept swiftly past her face to the carriage.
A bare nod and a postilion pulled the door wide. Steps were let down and with one agile movement he mounted and placed her gently upon the velvet squabs of the seat.
“Oh, Miss!” wailed a relieved voice from the ill-lit corner.
“Lucy!” Antiqua flung herself into her maid’s ready embrace and burst into tears.
“Well now, what start is this?” Lucy questioned as she hugged the younger girl tightly. “Cryin’s not what you’re given to, Miss Antiqua, ’pon my soul.”
The reply she received into her shoulder was inaudible, so Lucy simply held her firmly and murmured soothing words until at last the tears ceased to spill from Antiqua’s eyes. Vincent entered and, leaning casually into the opposite corner with his arms cros
sed, watched this moving scene dispassionately. After setting the bandbox and the muff aside, Fawkes took his seat.
Ultimately, Antiqua felt emboldened to raise her head from Lucy’s sheltering arms. Drying her eyes, she examined Vincent covertly. As he appeared to be sleeping, she relaxed and fell to considering her current predicament.
It had not, she ruefully concluded, been a prosperous day. For all her effort, she had not ended in any better case than before. Worse, in fact, as the throbbing in her ankle reminded her. And for all that had happened, without understanding why, Antiqua was certain of only two things: the awareness of having felt safe and secure when Vincent had enfolded her in his arms, and the conviction of being utterly lost when he had turned his gelid blue gaze so briefly upon her.
Antiqua thought she must be the most perverse and least discerning female in all England, for she was now unhappily conscious that, despite having been pursued and shot at and abducted, despite everything, despite knowing him for a traitor and a murderer and a villain of the most despicable, despite all this, she had had the supreme lack of sense as to have fallen in love with Jack Vincent.
A rumbling snore indicated that Oliver Fawkes had dozed. Having detected not the slightest movement from the lithe young man beside him, Antiqua felt reasonably certain that Vincent, too, must be deep asleep. She whispered softly to her maid, “What happened? How did you come to be in Vincent’s train?”
“She comes with me, Miss Greybill, because she has more sense than to subject me to high-strung melodramas,” Vincent remarked in a dry tone.
Antiqua jumped at the sound of his voice. Looking at him, she noted that he had not moved a muscle but still sprawled carelessly into his corner. The salvation of Europe from traitorous Bonapartists was buried beneath her outrage over his personal insult.
“How like you—how very like you—to mock me for my moment of weakness!” she said in an aggrieved tone. “It is as infamous as all else. Let me assure you, sir, I am not given to indulging in crying fits—it is a detestable frailty.”
“You relieve me. I can only now hope you will spare me any more of these wearisome tirades.”
Rather than dignify his statement with a response, she sat back and lapsed into an injured silence.
When they passed through Canterbury, Antiqua did not so much as raise her head to capture a glimpse of the famous cathedral, but remained immersed in her sulks. On the outskirts of the bustling town, the chaise slowed, turned into the yard of a thriving posting inn and came to a halt. She did look up then, and with a certain amount of relief, saw numerous ostlers and stable boys busily engaged throughout the yard. She could not feel that Vincent would harm her at an inn of such obvious respectability.
Vincent descended with an easy grace, then turned to receive Antiqua into his arms as Fawkes handed her down. Her heart thumped. When she was near him like this, when her senses filled with the warmth and touch and scent of him, what he was seemed to matter not a jot. In his arms, she felt ridiculously, comfortably secure. And undeniably agitated in ways she had never before known. Nestled against the steady measure of his heartbeat, she almost wished to turn traitor herself . . .
The thought dashed her like cold spring water. Antiqua remembered her mission and started within his hold. “My muff!” she exclaimed, wriggling to look over Vincent’s shoulder. “I’ve lost my muff!”
“Be still,” he commanded curtly.
Though she had no wish to make him any angrier, Antiqua knew where her duty lay. “But I’ve grown quite attached to it.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” he expostulated. “Give her the damned muff, will you?”
Lucy hurried forward to lay the large square of fur across Antiqua’s lap. Vincent did not pause, but strode through the arched doorway of The Unicorn Free House as the maid stepped back. Inside, Antiqua saw two servants standing on either side of a door, both dressed in the now-familiar blue and silver livery. As they approached, a stout, balding man wearing a crisp, white apron approached.
“My cousin has hurt her ankle,” Vincent said brusquely as he whisked her into a private parlor. Laying her upon the cut brocade seat of the room’s sofa, he added in an abrupt tone, “We shall require linens to bandage the ankle. Bring brandy, too.”
“Yes, sir,” responded the portly landlord. At the door he paused and turned back to inquire, “Do you think, sir, that she’s broken it?”
“B-broken?” Antiqua nervously echoed. “Oh, surely not! It’s but the merest twist—isn’t it?”
“I most seriously doubt that the ankle is broken,” Vincent stated. “We shall have Fawkes take a look at it, however, then have it wrapped and settled in a trice. Now put your foot up, Cousin Antiqua, and let Lucy remove your stockings.”
“Yes, Cousin Jack,” she said meekly.
The first glint of amusement she had seen that night passed through Vincent’s eyes. Without taking his gaze from her face, he flung his order to the innkeeper, “Get me that brandy!”
The eloquent tone of this directive sent the landlord out the door on the instant. Fawkes and Vincent discreetly took an interest in the furnishings on the other side of the room while Lucy quickly stripped the begrimed knit stockings from her charge’s shapely legs. She had accomplished this and was folding the mud-spattered stockings into a neat pile when the innkeeper scurried in carrying a wad of linen and a bottle of brandy. Vincent took the latter from his hand, splashed a measure into a glass and returned purposefully to Antiqua’s side.
“Here you are, cousin. Drink this down,” he commanded.
“What is it?” She took a cautious sniff. Was it drugged? Raising her gaze from the glass, she met Vincent’s glance squarely. “I do not think I should care for this, thank you, sir.”
“Drink it. Or I shall pour it down your throat.”
She remained defiant but a moment more, knowing from his soft tone that it was no use. If it were drugged, she would at least be safe from the distressing temptation to snuggle against him and smother him with kisses. Throwing her head back, she downed the contents on a gulp. Her wracking cough brought a smile to Vincent’s lips.
“Good girl,” he said. “Now Fawkes has learned a thing or two about broken bones in his time. If you feel ready, he shall examine your ankle.”
“P-perfectly r-ready,” she coughed.
Her injured member was stretched out on the sofa. Fawkes’s giant paws completely engulfed the puffed and bruised ankle, but were surprisingly gentle as he pressed here and there. Once, he turned her foot, knocking a gasp from her. She made no other sound throughout, but kept her lips squeezed into a tight line. When at last he laid her foot back down upon the brocade, Antiqua was drained of color. Sweeping his intent gaze over her pale face, Vincent forced another small dose of brandy into her hand. This time she drank it without argumentation.
“Well?” Vincent inquired of his valet.
“Nothing’s broken, though ’tis torn up a fair amount. No permanent damage done, but I reckon she’ll not be using that foot for some while.” Fawkes turned an admiring grin on Antiqua. “You’re a prime gun, Miss, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so.”
“I myself would have thought ‘incorrigible brat’ more apt,” Vincent put.
The gaze which turned to meet his spoke clearly of Antiqua’s umbrage at this uncomplimentary description. But her resentment faded as she perceived the warmth in the blue eyes resting upon her. Though she thought she should fight against it, she felt absurdly joyful to discover the last vestige of icy indifference quite gone from his manner.
“Such restraint, Brown-eyes,” he approved in an amused tone. He stood idly watching as Fawkes carefully wrapped the linen bandage about her swollen ankle, then came forward the instant the task was completed. “Bid everyone good night, cousin. Since you rose so very early—and expended so much exertion during the course of the day—I’m certain you will agree it’s time for you to retire.”
Making no demur as he lifted her into his arms, Anti
qua gave in to the inevitable effect of the brandy and sank her head sleepily against his shoulder. The faint scent of starch wafted from his cravat. Beneath her ear, she could hear the rhythmic beat of his heart. She allowed herself to luxuriate in the contentment of his hold all the way up the staircase to her room.
There, however, she raised her head. “I’m truly sorry, sir,” she murmured, “to have vexed you with my tears. I can’t imagine what came over me, for I do not indulge in such fits as a general rule.”
Vincent stopped dead, giving her a startled look. Then he threw back his dark head and laughed. “Oh, my dear,” he said when he could. “You do not think to apologize for having led me a merry chase over half the Kentish countryside, for having called me names I’ve dueled over, for driving me mad with worry! You apologize merely for the tears you shed.”
Laughter still sparkled in his eyes as he gently set her upon the feather bed. He sat on the edge beside her, then reached out and smoothed her dark brown hair against the white of her pillows. He let his fingers wander lightly over the smooth skin of her cheek. The laughter faded from his gaze, and the deep blue visibly darkened as he caressed her.
He leaned forward until his lips were a hairbreadth away from hers. “Good night, my abominable Brown-eyes,” he whispered, sending his warm breath over her skin. Then he straightened and was gone.
Antiqua fell asleep with the taste of his breath still upon hers to dream of the kiss he had nearly given her.
It seemed at first as if her heart were fiercely pounding at the mere memory of his touch, his kiss. Then she realized with a start that someone was knocking on her door. Sitting up, she called out and did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed when Lucy entered with another young serving maid, bearing a cauldron of hot water between them.
Antiqua was bathed, dried, dressed and fed before she was allowed a moment alone with her maid. The instant the other girl departed, Antiqua twirled on the seat of a balloon-backed chair to demand Lucy relate everything that had occurred the previous evening.
