by Jen Turano
“Lucetta!” he exclaimed, as his guilty look was replaced with a charming smile when she brought Sweet Pea to a stop. “What in the world are you doing out here, and . . . are you in your wrapper?”
Not waiting for her to reply, he shrugged out of his top coat and moved close enough to her to draw the coat around her shoulders.
Lovely warmth seeped into her every pore as the scent of sandalwood, lime, and something distinctly male tickled her nose.
When she realized he was waiting for some type of reply, she pulled herself from thoughts of warmth and manly smells. “I got locked out of the castle, and when I saw you leaving, I thought I’d try to catch up with you.”
Bram frowned. “What do you mean you got locked out of the castle? And what were you doing wandering around the castle at this hour of the night anyway?”
“I wasn’t planning on wandering around the castle,” she said with a bit of an edge to her tone. “In all honesty, I’m sure I’d still be fast asleep if a suit of armor hadn’t decided to take a nighttime stroll through the tower.”
“What?”
“A suit of armor . . .”
“Yes, I heard you, but . . . why would a suit of armor be walking through the tower? Or better yet, how would it have gotten up there in the first place?”
“Probably the same way Geoffrey did, although why they were in the tower room, well, that’s fairly obvious.”
“Not to me.”
“Someone wants me gone from Ravenwood.”
“Surely not.”
“Why else would someone don a suit of armor and try to scare me half to death?”
Bram blew out a breath. “I suppose someone was inside the armor, since it couldn’t have been walking about on its own. But why they did such a thing is a bit of a mystery.”
“As could be said for numerous recent situations at Ravenwood—including why you’ve chosen to ride your horse around in the middle of the night.”
The horse in question moved up to join them, practically knocking Bram over as it nuzzled him. Regaining his balance, Bram smiled and gave his horse a good pat. “This is Storm, and there’s nothing mysterious at all about me riding him at night, even if the good folk of Tarrytown have taken to making up tales about me and my nightly rides.”
He patted Storm again. “Storm, if you must know, hasn’t tolerated sunlight well for the past couple of years. His eyes have turned sensitive to the light, but I didn’t want him to grow old before his time, which is why we ride when it’s dark.”
A rather warm and mushy feeling began traveling through Lucetta, a feeling that had her knees going a tad weak, until she remembered she was talking to a man who’d yet to explain why he’d been wearing an eye patch when she’d first met him, or why questionable jewelry and a bloody sword had been stashed in his fireplace. Add in the fact that there was now a suit of armor meandering around, scaring unsuspecting guests in the middle of the night, and she had no business allowing her knees to go all wobbly.
“. . . and since you have managed to track me down, would you care to join us as we continue on with our nightly adventure?”
“Adventure . . . ? What kind of adventure?” she asked slowly.
Bram leaned down and placed his mouth directly next to her ear, his closeness sending a chill, and one she didn’t think was from the cold air, down her spine. “We’ll just have to make that up as we go.”
A thread of disappointment stole over her as he straightened, moved to Storm’s side, and then swung up into the saddle.
“What type of adventure sounds fun to you?” he asked.
“I’m not certain what you’re asking.”
He gave a sad shake of his head. “Oh dear, you’ve forgotten how to have fun, haven’t you.”
Annoyance was swift. “Of course I haven’t.”
“Prove it.”
Not one to back down from a challenge, Lucetta smiled. “Very well, off the top of my head, I believe it would be great fun to visit Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, and . . . walk amongst the gravestones.”
Smiling, Bram sent her an approving sort of nod. “Very good, Miss Plum, you’re obviously a lady after my own heart, although I will admit I didn’t take you for the type who’d enjoy places that embrace a rather gothic nature.”
“Or morbid, one might say,” she added.
Nodding in agreement with that, he turned Storm around and urged him into motion. Lucetta clicked her tongue, and Sweet Pea fell into step right next to Storm. It quickly became clear that besides not tolerating the sun, Storm didn’t tolerate a fast clip for very long, and before Lucetta knew it, she was slowing Sweet Pea down to such an extent that the mule actually turned its head and sent her a reproachful eye.
“Now then,” Bram began, looking down at her from his seat on Storm, “in the spirit of keeping with our theme of adventure, we’re going to create a story as we ride.”
“A story?”
“Yes, you know, use our imaginations and come up with some riveting tale to keep us entertained.”
“Is that what you were doing when I first came upon you?”
For a second, he simply looked at her, and then, oddly enough, he smiled his charming smile at her again. “It was indeed, and . . . since I have already begun a story, we’ll use what I’ve come up with thus far and continue on with it.”
“I’m not very good with creating imaginary stories,” she admitted slowly.
“Nonsense, you create imaginary scenes every time you take to the stage.”
“That’s different. I have a script I’ve memorized, but I certainly wouldn’t be able to create those words written in that script.” She shook her head. “Why, if I tried to create my very own story the end result would be too awful to even contemplate.”
Bram considered her for a moment. “You really are very much like my sister, as I actually pointed out to Ruby earlier today. She—I’m sure you’ll be surprised to learn, given her exuberant nature—has not an ounce of artistic talent in her entire body, and whatever you do, ignore any offer from her to play the piano for you. It’s an event your ears will never forget.”
“She played for us after dinner this evening, which you would have known if you’d joined us.”
Bram looked anything but contrite. “It truly is unfortunate that I had important matters to attend to that demanded my full attention, making dinner, as well as entertainment in the drawing room afterward, an impossible event.”
Lucetta frowned. “Why is it that your staff—as well as your family—seems to be rather vague when talk turns to you and important matters, which I’m going to assume are business matters?”
“I’m sure they’re a little vague because they assume their guests will be bored if the conversation turns to matters of business.”
“Does that mean you’re involved in a business that most people find less than exciting such as . . . finance, perhaps?”
Bram actually shuddered. “I don’t care for finance in the least. Ruby is the one in the family who has a proficiency for numbers. Growing up, she’d spend hours in Father’s office, poring over his ledgers. She’d considered going to a university to study finance but found that the universities she wanted to attend would not admit a lady to their finance departments.” He released a sigh. “Truth be told, I believe the only reason she became involved with Geoffrey Jensen was because he works on Wall Street. While she claimed to be fascinated with the gentleman, I believe she was more fascinated with the talk they shared regarding the market than anything else about him.”
“Your sister enjoys the stock market?” Lucetta asked.
“Indeed, and she has recently taken over a few of our family investments, I’m pleased to report, which have shown substantial growth under her watch.”
Lucetta smiled. “I imagine Mr. Jensen would be most put out if he were to learn she’s successfully playing the market.”
Frowning, Bram tilted his head. “He already knows. He came to dinner one night months ag
o right after Ruby had learned a railroad stock she’d chosen to invest in was beginning to show promise of a nice return.”
“Then it’s little wonder he discontinued his association with her. Gentlemen—especially those who fancy themselves experts in the area of finance—don’t care for ladies who involve themselves in the market, believing that finance is unfitting for a true lady to participate in.”
“You say that as if you’re personally acquainted with just that situation,” Bram said slowly.
“Yes, I did, didn’t I? But enough about me. I’d much rather talk about you and your family. Tell me more about your father, and . . . now that I think about it, you mentioned something about a brother. Where are they, and what do they do?”
“Father’s currently in Cuba, as is my brother, Hugh. Hugh’s the eldest and is in the process of taking over the family sugar business.”
“Didn’t you want to have a hand in running your family business?”
Storm suddenly wandered over to the side of the road, and for a moment Lucetta thought she’d offended Bram and he was putting some distance between them, until she realized that Storm had gotten distracted by a patch of weeds.
“I was never interested in the sugar business,” Bram continued as Lucetta brought Sweet Pea right up next to him. “Granted, I enjoyed running through the sugarcane fields when I was a boy, but I had no interest in the factories, preferring to spend my time on the white beaches of Cuba, watching the clouds drift by.”
“It sounds as if you might be a bit of a dreamer.”
Smiling, Bram shook his head. “There’s no might about it, Lucetta. I am a dreamer, much to the disappointment of my parents, which is why I enjoy spending my time out here on this deserted stretch of road in the middle of the night, creating my own stories and such. And speaking of stories . . . let us return to the one you’re going to help me to create.”
“I told you, I’m not good at thinking up stories.”
“You will be a great help with creating our story since you often assume the identity of a damsel in distress when you take to the stage,” he countered.
“I always assume the identity of a damsel in distress,” she corrected.
“Which is an excellent point and is also why we’ll make our story a little different.” He lapsed into silence for a moment. “Instead of having your typical knight in shining armor, especially since you might be a little predisposed to take issue with a man sporting armor at the moment, why don’t we make our hero a pirate?”
“Is he a real pirate? Because real pirates probably smell, and that’s not a characteristic a true hero should possess.”
“Another excellent point, so . . . he’ll only be masquerading as a pirate. His real profession is a . . . spy for the Crown.”
“Which Crown?”
Bram waved the question away. “We don’t need to concern ourselves with details just yet.”
“Details are what make a story interesting.”
“Fine, he’s from Romania.”
“That seems a bit farfetched. What would a pirate be doing in Romania?”
Bram ignored her question even as he seemed to begin grinding his teeth. “Working as a spy, he soon finds himself captured by . . .”
“Members of Ravenwood’s staff,” Lucetta finished for him—yet another suggestion Bram ignored.
“. . . captured by dastardly criminals, and they take him to a dungeon, where they proceed to threaten him.”
“Threaten him? They need to hang him from the ceiling, from his feet.”
Bram’s brows drew together. “Who are you?”
Clearing her throat, Lucetta gave an airy wave of her hand. “Continue, if you please.”
Sending her a look of disbelief right before Storm began drifting back to the road again, Bram waited for her to get Sweet Pea back into motion before he continued. “As I was saying, before you injected a rather disturbing plot point into the story, our hero gets captured, and . . . here’s where I’d really like your opinion—although given your other opinions, I’m not actually certain about that any longer. . . .”
He looked somewhat intently her way, as if the fate of the world rested on this particular question and, subsequently, her answer. “How would the heroine of the story react to this dastardly situation?”
Giving the question the attention Bram obviously felt it deserved, she wrinkled her nose after a few seconds had passed. “The heroine I normally play, or the heroine I’d like to play?”
“The heroine you’d like to play.”
She smiled. “She’d slip into the jail, cut the hero down from where he was still hanging from the rafters, pull a pistol on the criminals who’d been holding the hero captive, and then spirit him away to a remote location, where she’d then hire a caretaker to tend to his wounds.”
“Why doesn’t she tend to his wounds?”
Lucetta let out a snort. “Please, practically every romantic story written these days has the heroine tending to the hero’s wounds, or fever, or whatever else could possibly be laying him low, and . . . she’s usually weeping. If she brings in a caretaker to see to the injuries, there’s no need for the whole weeping scene, which I’m sure most readers would find refreshing in this day and age.”
“You really are very frightening, aren’t you.”
Laughing—a response that felt delightful—Lucetta launched into other ideas, charmed in spite of herself when Bram, after mentioning a few more times that he was coming to the conclusion she was slightly deranged, threw himself back into the creation of their story. Before she knew it, Bram was leading them down a gravel lane, stopping in front of a stone archway that had a wrought-iron sign swinging from it—a sign that sported the words Sleepy Hollow Cemetery.
Slipping off Storm, Bram looped the reins around a nearby tree, then moved to Lucetta and helped her out of the pony cart.
“Storm isn’t keen on cemeteries,” he said, taking Lucetta’s arm. “They make him jittery, so it’s best if we leave him here, as well as Sweet Pea. They can keep each other company.”
Heading for the archway, they walked through it and into the cemetery, Lucetta immediately steering Bram over to a line of grave markers that were gleaming in the moonlight.
Time slipped away as they studied one marker after another, each of them pointing out interesting tidbits that they found engraved on different stones.
“You might find this one interesting, Luc . . .” Bram suddenly reached out and pulled her close when the sound of wheels crunching over gravel disturbed the peace surrounding them. Before they had a chance to dart behind a grave marker, a carriage—one that looked all too familiar—rumbled into sight.
As Abigail’s carriage skidded to a stop, Mr. Skukman jumped to the ground and advanced their way, stopping right in front of her. He sent her a shake of his head before he looked to Bram and let out a grunt.
“Would you be so kind as to explain to me why—when it is well known that Silas Ruff has gone to extraordinary means to get close to Miss Plum and is probably even now scouring the eastern coast for her—you thought it would be a good idea to spirit her away from the safety of the castle and bring her to a cemetery, of all places?”
When Bram didn’t seem to have a ready answer to that, and Lucetta couldn’t seem to think of a reasonable way to explain the suit of armor, which had well and truly been the reason she’d left the castle, Mr. Skukman let out another grunt before he took her by the arm and hustled her away.
15
I’m afraid I still have no idea why you’ve decided that I need to be in disguise to attend the theatrical rehearsal tonight,” Mr. Skukman mumbled as Tilda, a delightful young woman Mrs. Macmillan had insisted Lucetta use as a lady’s maid, applied a pair of hot tongs to Mr. Skukman’s hair, creating a style that was . . . interesting.
Lucetta looked up from the wig she’d been in the process of fluffing. “Since you’ve been so vocal regarding keeping me safe, as can be seen by your overreaction
to events last night, we certainly don’t want to risk anyone recognizing you now. Why, that might lead to unwanted questions about what Mr. Skukman, Miss Plum’s incredibly recognizable personal guard, is doing at Ravenwood.”
Mr. Skukman’s only response was a grunt, probably because Tilda seemed to have gotten the tongs stuck and was obviously pulling Mr. Skukman’s hair as she tried to get the tongs released. Stumbling back a moment later, Tilda held up the tongs and blew out a breath.
“This tong business is far trickier than I ever imagined,” Tilda said as she set aside the tongs and patted Mr. Skukman’s head. “But you still have most of your hair, so no harm done.”
Mr. Skukman rubbed his head and frowned Tilda’s way. “Are you suggesting that you’ve never used hot tongs before?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’ve only recently been elevated to lady’s maid, so this fixing hair and doing up gowns business is quite new to me.” Tilda grinned. “Why, up until a day ago, I was a scullery maid, only responsible for cleaning out the fireplaces, and before that . . . Well, let me simply say that I was involved in the . . . stealth business, although . . .” Her grin faded. “Mr. Haverstein has been the only person in my life to ever give me an honest opportunity, so I’ve put my days of stealth—and all that went with that—behind me for good.”
“How delightful for you, Tilda,” Mr. Skukman said before he arched a brow Lucetta’s way, a brow that rose above the squiggly curls that now covered his forehead, a forehead that normally never saw hair touch it, as Mr. Skukman preferred to keep his hair combed away from his face. “However, I’m finding it less than delightful that you, Miss Plum, have apparently set a woman armed with hot tongs—and yet having no skill to wield those tongs—on me.”
Lucetta smiled and picked up a stick of kohl, using it to darken her brows. “You annoyed me, so Tilda and hot tongs was my way of making you completely aware of that annoyance.”
