But not just yet, not until he came back for her, until she knew he was safe and all this was behind him. Until she knew who had tried to hurt her and why.
“Very well,” she said. “I’ll stay here and not try to leave. But come back quickly, Colter. I won’t be able to bear it while you’re gone.”
His brow quirked. “Lovely little liar, you won’t miss me at all.”
Yes, she swore silently. I will miss you more than I want to admit.
It was bittersweet, this coming together when both knew it might be a while before they saw each other again. While she may not know details, she had gleaned enough information to realize that Colter was involved in some sort of espionage, and could only imagine that it entailed danger.
So there was this night with him, a night that may very well be their last. She clung to him with fierce emotion driving her reactions so that when he told her to get on top she did so without question, straddling him as he directed her to do.
It was so erotic, the slow slide of her body onto his, the exquisite intrusion sending shudders through her as she began to rock against him. In the gloom, she could see the sheen of his eyes watching her. That she was in control while he watched was exciting, too.
With her knees bent and legs folded on each side of him, she set the pace, lifting enough to tease him, her head tilted back, loose pale hair like a silken cloud down her bare back, the brush of it against her shoulder blades like a caress. Slowly she lowered her body until she heard him groan. His hands moved to her breasts, his fingers cleverly arousing her so that she gasped as heat spiraled through her veins again.
“Here, love,” he said softly when she rocked against him with almost frantic urgency. “Like this.” And he taught her the motion, his skilled hands tutoring her so that the point of quivering tension was stroked in a far different way than he’d massaged her before. She strained against his hand, learned that she could adjust the level of pleasure herself. With his whispered instructions in language that was direct but not obscene, he taught her about her own body.
“You’re made for pleasure,” he murmured. With a wicked smile she could barely see in the dusky shadows, he ran his hands from her breasts over her rib cage to the flat of her belly. “And that’s the sweetest part of it, love, that this is the way it’s meant to be. You like that, don’t you? Yes, I see that you do. God, you drive me crazy. I want to make love to you all night when you look at me like that, your eyes half-closed and that teasing smile on your mouth.”
She wanted to tell him that she loved the way he made her feel, loved what his hands were doing—and that she loved him. But all that would come out was a husky moan.
The wagon rocked on its wheels as the world exploded around her and she contracted around him in wave after wave of heated bliss. Then he was rolling over with her beneath him, his mouth on hers as he took her with sweet, fierce possession.
And Celia thought hazily that she heard him whisper her name when he lay at last atop her, spent, his arms around her as if she would flee, murmuring soft endearments. It was reassuring and comforting.
He left early the next morning, abandoning the warmth of the surprisingly comfortable bed they’d shared after a last kiss that only made her feel worse. She turned her face away to the wall so he wouldn’t see her tears. Neither of them had slept much, but made love again and again, drawing comfort from each other, and Colter had been more tender than ever before, as if to soothe her fears—or say a final farewell.
24
Jacqueline hadn’t slept for two days. Sick with worry, she had finally dozed off when word came that Northington had returned to London.
Sitting up on the lounge where she lay, she burst out, “Where is Celia? Oh, Jules, tell me he has her with him and that she’s all right…Oh no, don’t shake your head at me, when you know I want the truth—”
“My love, be strong,” Jules said, crossing to her and going on one knee beside the low lounge. “He claims not to know where she is. The Runners say they cannot find her, that she was last seen with him, but they cannot be certain it was really her.”
A choked sob hung in her throat, and she shook her head wildly. “But the note…it just doesn’t sound like her to go off without telling me. I don’t believe it! I just don’t believe it! He has to know—he was with her. I saw them at the opera together…Oh, and there was another man, if only I could remember his name.” She stared beseechingly at her husband. “Do you think this has anything to do with the robbery?”
“It’s possible.” Jules squeezed her hand tightly. “We have to have faith she’s all right, my love. She did send a note—”
“No, no, it wasn’t right, it just wasn’t right! Oh, won’t anyone listen to me? Celia wouldn’t have written it that way, wouldn’t have just disappeared like that unless there’s something terribly wrong.” She drew in a shaky breath. “No one seems to think the robbery that took place while we were at the opera is important since nothing of value was taken. But Lily says that Celia’s trunks were searched, and that Janey is no doubt part of the blame. Oh God.” She bit her lip, stared at her husband as if he could magically produce Celia and whispered, “I have a terrible feeling that, despite what the police say, the two things are somehow connected.”
Jules didn’t believe her. Oh, he didn’t say it aloud, but it was plain from his distracted patting of her hand and murmured comfort that he thought she was wrong. Despair was an ache. She’d failed Celia, failed Léonie. Northington must know where she was. Why wouldn’t he tell anyone? She had to know—and she intended to know.
Lying back on the lounge, she murmured, “I’m distraught and need to rest, Jules. Please be kind enough to send Hester to me with a soothing drink.”
“Yes, yes, my dearest, I will. Right away!”
Once Jules had left the room, Jacqueline rose from the lounge and went to her cherry writing desk. She pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, dipped a new pen into the inkwell and began to scrawl a note, pausing twice to think before she continued.
When Hester arrived with a cup of hot milk and butter, she was told to post the note at once by messenger.
“Give him a coin to assure its swift delivery,” she added, and the maid nodded as she left with the sealed note.
Tomorrow, Jacqueline thought, she would ask Northington herself.
“My lord Northington is not in,” the butler said once again, his face impassive as he regarded Jacqueline with an air of polite curiosity, “as I have told you, my lady. Please leave your card and I will—”
“No. He may not wish to speak with me, but I wish to speak with him, and I will not accept a refusal.” She peeled off her gloves with abrupt, angry motions, eyeing the butler with determination. “I have faced much worse things than an irate viscount, and I will not be intimidated. Tell your master that I will not go away until he answers my question. He’ll see me.”
After the barest of hesitations, the man inclined his head and withdrew, leaving her standing in the entrance hall instead of showing her to a parlor. She would not be shunted off to wait in a closed room, but intended to remain visible until he relented.
A few moments later, Northington descended from the upper floor, an expression of mild interest on his handsome face.
“My lady Leverton, I’m afraid your visit is futile. I cannot answer your question because I have nothing to tell you.”
“Yes,” she said firmly, “you do. I am not a child, sir, and will not be fobbed off. I hear things, and I know that you are not quite what you seem.”
“How intriguing.” His smile did not alter, but a sharp light glittered in his eyes. “Come into my study with me and I’ll try to explain to you again that your cousin is not with me.”
“But you know where she is. Do not deny it.”
Once they were in the study and the door closed behind them, Northington seated her opposite his desk. He leaned back against it, long legs crossed at the ankles, his stance negligent but his eyes war
y.
“Your note mentioned a missing purse. Why would you think I want it?”
“Because that’s what those men were searching for when they broke into my house the night of the opera. I have it.” She smiled when his eyes narrowed dangerously, and leaned forward. “I don’t know why you want it, or why those men want it, but I do know it must be important or no one would go to so much trouble to find it. I ask you again, does Celia know the importance of what she has?”
“Ah, so that’s what you meant. A rather cryptic query, and I had no idea how to answer.”
“You prevaricate, my lord. Shall I tell you how I know it must have some value? The footpads who robbed us that day in Berkley Square cared not only for our jewels, but for our reticules, as well. I wore an emerald ring and a diamond pin that should have interested any self-respecting thief. But my reticule? I began to wonder about it later, once the shock had worn off, and came to the realization that they had seemed far more interested in the papers I happened to carry that day. Now, shall you tell me if this has anything at all to do with my goddaughter’s disappearance? And more importantly, is she safe?”
Silence fell between them. After a moment, he said softly, “I can tell you she is well and safe. That’s all you need to know. I warn you, if you truly hold something that’s already spurred men to violence, you’d best put it into the proper hands.”
“I thought you might say that. But I have never thought it very fair to make an uneven exchange.” She leaned forward to stare at him intently. “It will all come out that Celia has been compromised, then any hope of a good match for her will be ruined. You’ve tread dangerously close to ruining her yourself and don’t think I haven’t noticed. It’s been by God’s own grace that her name hasn’t been dragged through the gossip mills by now.”
“I perceive that you wish a bargain,” he said wryly, but there was a taut set to his mouth. She had the sudden thought that perhaps she had gone too far.
“Yes, I do.” She hesitated, but could tell nothing from his face. “In exchange for restoring Celia’s good reputation, I will tell you where to find what you’re looking for, sir. That’s my proposition.”
“And if I agree?”
“Then you’ll secure what others are willing to kill for, it seems.”
“How do I know you have what I’ve been looking for?”
She drew in another deep breath, then made a decision. With a swift tug, she opened the strings of her reticule and drew out a city directory. She held it out to him, and knew from the sudden opacity of his eyes that she was right.
“Well, my lord,” she asked, “do we have a bargain?”
25
It had snowed during the night. Celia pushed aside the flimsy curtain to peer outside, shivering in the cold air inside the wagon. An ingenious little stove that held hot coals usually kept it warm enough, but the embers had died to gray ash now.
She scrubbed a hand through her hair, dyed dark at the insistence of Santiago, and she wore gypsy clothes—bright skirts and blouses—with nothing underneath. She had to admit it was much more comfortable than wearing confining stays. The stain on her hair made it rather stiff and dry, so that she usually wore it loose instead of up on her head or in neat plaits. Thankfully the dye was fading, the pale natural color returning with the passage of time.
Perhaps the danger had faded as well. No one had come near the camp, not in all the weeks she’d been here. It was on Northington land, the estate just beyond the line of woods and hill, and sometimes she thought she could almost see it if she walked to the top of the nearest hill. Most of the time she stayed in the wagon, and her one encounter with Marita had been unpleasant.
And revealing.
Tossing long dark hair, the girl had confronted her when no one else was near, the men gone hunting or into the village to peddle cheap wares.
“So,” Marita said, a sneer curling red lips. “Do you think because he has left you here that you are safe?”
“If I’m not, it will be your father who’s at fault,” Celia countered coolly. “He promised Lord Northington that I would come to no harm here. A matter of pride, he said.”
A hiss escaped between her teeth as Marita moved a step closer; tension vibrated through her slender body. She wore no cape or cloak for warmth, only several layers of wool skirts and blouses, her legs bare beneath the folds of striped red-and-blue wool. They stood at the edge of the small wooded copse where the wagons formed a tight circle, and save for a woman by the fire in the center and a string of horses tethered beyond the camp, it was deserted.
“Foolish one,” Marita said. “It is not safe anytime you are with us, for the good English citizens find reasons to drive us away whenever they can. We must travel constantly, and find ways to live. Few are like him. He has respect for us, and we repay it with honor. My father would never do anything to lose that trust, but even he has no control over men who do not mind destroying their own.”
“What are you talking about?” Celia didn’t like Marita; the girl was too bold, too arrogant, and she seemed to regard Colter as if he belonged to her.
Swinging her hips, Marita sauntered closer. “You were with him when those men fired at him, were you not? I can remember how angry everyone was and how you were thrown from your horse—”
“I jumped. And it was a horse that hadn’t even been trained, as you well know.”
Marita grinned impudently, and gave a shrug of her slim shoulders. “You said you could ride, so I believed you. What else was I to think?”
“Never mind that. What do you know about those men who fired at us?”
“Only that they were firing at you, not at the handsome lord. Oh, does that surprise you? Did you think you have no enemies?”
“No one has any reason to fire at me,” Celia said curtly, though she couldn’t help but recall the evening at the opera. Perhaps they hadn’t really tried to kill her, but someone definitely didn’t mind harming her. “And how would you know anything about it?”
“Because I am here all the time, and I learn things. I do not stay all day in the camp but go places, and I know. I know more than you, it seems, for you do not even believe me when I tell you this.”
But she did believe her. Despite the resentment between them, there was the ring of truth to Marita’s claim that she had seen the men that day, and had followed them.
“I meant only to follow you, because I knew you had lied and that the horse would throw you,” she said slyly. “But then I saw what happened. Men like to drink, and when they drink they often like to talk to beautiful women they think have no brains, or no ears to hear what they say.”
She shrugged. “So I listen, and I laugh, and I let them think I do not understand. And that is how I learn what I know—that you are not what you pretend to be.” She sidled closer. “And I know he does not know it. He thinks you are so honest, but all the time you lie, lie, lie.”
“Prove it,” she said flatly, and Marita’s eyes narrowed angrily.
“Do you think I cannot? I will. Oh, I will prove it to you and you will know I am not what you think—a lying gypsy girl with no honor!”
What could she possibly know? Celia wavered between denial and fear. Not fear for herself, but fear that she would be exposed before she had a chance to explain, to tell Jacqueline, and yes, Colter, that it was true she had come under false pretenses, that she’d lied, but now she wanted to tell the entire truth.
Torn with indecision, she’d spent several sleepless nights agonizing over what to do.
And then last night a message had finally come from Colter that she was to meet him away from the gypsy camp. Bold masculine script was a terse scrawl on paper bearing his seal, and now that the moment she’d been dreading and anticipating was here, she found herself calmly accepting it.
Marita was to take her to him, not to Harmony Hill but to a more private spot, the brief note stated. “Go with Marita. She will bring you to me.”
It was signed
with just his initials, but the seal pressed into fine parchment was unmistakable. She had seen it on glassware, stationary, even reproduced on towels.
Santiago, who had given her the note, gazed down at her with something akin to sympathy in his dark eyes, and his usually booming voice was soft.
“You look so sad, but you should not. Are you surprised that I see it? I may not know all the reasons, but I do know that whatever your fear, it can only be conquered with the courage you have inside. It is all that is left us at times, that strength to do what must be done. You are much stronger than you think. And he is more honorable than is said.”
He’d not needed to specify who he meant, for they both knew who mattered most to her. Was it that obvious? Yes, it must be, for hadn’t Marita known it even before she did? It had gleamed in those exotic black eyes from the very first, the recognition that there was far more in her feelings for Colter than she’d admitted to herself.
And now she would face him at last and tell him the truth of why she had come to England. After that, she would know if she had a place here.
So this morning, as the snow frosted ground and trees, she met Marita at the far edge of the gypsy camp.
“Come along,” Marita said softly, and motioned to her from the fringe of trees just beyond the camp when Celia moved toward the horses. “I will choose a horse for you, eh?”
“If you don’t mind, I think I’ll choose my own,” Celia replied tartly, and knew from her disappointed pout that she had foiled another of Marita’s tricks.
Mounted upon a rather docile, small mare, she followed the gypsy girl down a winding track; it was so quiet in the trees, snow muffling hoofbeats and even the sounds of birds muted, as if in a church. Peace shrouded the land, so that she could almost hear the whisper of snow striking bare limbs and dead stalks of grass that rustled in a light wind. The air smelled of the sea.
They rode out onto a lane that looked vaguely familiar, and Celia thought it must be very near Harmony Hill. She had ridden this way with Carolyn that day, though it had looked so different in soft sunlight and with gentle breezes. Now it was barren, with leafless trees standing sentinel along the edge. It curved near the top of the cliffs, finally in a thin ribbon.
A Reckless Encounter Page 24
