Mistress By Mistake

by Maggie Robinson

  Charlotte gasped when she saw what he pulled out of the trunk next.

  “In case of smugglers. Or Jamie. No one is welcome to intrude on us this evening.”

  She stared at the pistol, her stomach twisting nervously. The last time she had seen such a weapon was still too fresh in her mind.

  “I thought you said the smugglers have gone straight hereabouts.”

  “So they have. Frazier, God bless him, is a worrywart. Plans for every eventuality. I hope Kitty settles him down. It’s a wonder he didn’t pack a rapier.” Bay put the gun back and pulled a banyan over his head, a colorful striped affair that made him look reckless and rakish. “Let me comb out your hair, and then we’ll go a-caving.”

  Charlotte sat down obediently on a folding camp chair. There was no fear of the pocketknife this time. Bay was efficient in unknotting knots and untangling tangles. She suspected he had lots of practice combing women’s hair and felt a flare of jealousy. Soon some other lucky dark-haired blue-eyed girl would be his companion, unless he changed his ways and made her his wife. There were probably a slew of seventeen-year-old brunettes lined up at Almack’s just waiting for him to get back. She pushed her disagreeable thoughts away and concentrated on the moment. The sky was turning smoky purple, and orange and pink clouds hung low on the horizon. The ocean glittered with the last of the light, the regular rush of the waves as soothing as the strokes through her hair. Her body felt heavy with relaxation, but she remembered exploration and supper were still ahead.

  Apparently satisfied with his results, Bay tossed the comb onto the old carpet. Charlotte could see it once had been a thing of true beauty. Scarlet poppies and palm fronds formed an elaborate border around a midnight blue field covered with golden birds. There was a substantial rip in the center, with loose threads sticking up everywhere.

  “This rug—I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “My grandfather sent it back from India. It was in my grandmother’s bedchamber for years until she kept tripping on the worn spots. I made her retire it but she didn’t have the heart to throw it away. It does lend some class to our camp-out.”

  “I haven’t agreed to spend the night out here with you, you know. I’ve never done such a thing.”

  Bay nuzzled her neck. “I’ll keep the fire going. There is a chamber pot nearby, if that’s what you’re worrying about.”

  Charlotte felt heat course through her. How very cavalier he was about her bodily functions. There were still some things she was too shy to speak of or do anywhere in his vicinity.

  “I’ve seen it all, you know. There weren’t privies in Portugal,” he reminded her, as if sensing her objection.

  “Well, we are in England, and my mama would die if she weren’t dead already that we are even having this conversation.” Charlotte fastened the robe more securely around her waist. Her mama would certainly not approve of her current attire or recent activities either. “Speaking of which, let’s change the subject. Take me to your cave.”

  Bay picked up the lantern and offered her an arm. “You know the hidden passage in the parlor. Turn left and you’re up the stairs. Turn right and there’s another set of stairs that leads to the cellars and an underground tunnel, very convenient when you’re unloading contraband from the beach. Right through here—”

  He pointed to a narrow seam between two boulders.

  “Goodness! Your contraband couldn’t be very wide, could it?”

  “Ye of little faith.”

  Bay placed his hand in an indentation and the rock, which wasn’t really a rock at all, pushed open with a screech of hinges. The rock had been sliced and affixed to a wooden panel. They were now standing in a small stone-lined chamber. There was indeed a fraying canvas cot, an abandoned rusty lantern, and a gleaming white chamber pot with neatly folded linen rags beside it.

  “See? Nothing to worry about. Frazier is incomparable.”

  Charlotte laughed. “What about the bats and spiders?”

  “Gone. They wouldn’t dare linger. Now, my mermaid, what say you? Are you ready to spend a night counting stars with me?”

  To do the job properly would take an infinite number of nights, but Charlotte knew she had just one.

  “I am.”

  Chapter 22

  Bay watched her as she unselfconsciously licked apple tart crumbs from her fingers in the shimmering glow of the lantern. Her glorious hair corkscrewed down her shoulders. The robe had come undone, and each time she had leaned forward to pick another treat from the basket in the center of the carpet, Bay caught a glimpse of plump white breast. The moon had risen, casting a silver stripe on the sea. The sky was spattered with stars and a sultry breeze billowed the makeshift tent. If this wasn’t the perfect time to propose, there would never be one.

  He’d moderated his wine intake, wanting to be clear-headed when he made the most decisive declaration of his life. Charlie had no such scruples. She was a bit tipsy, delightfully so. Gone was the cap-wearing solemn spinster of old. In her place was a saucy temptress, whose every movement aroused his unbridled lust.

  But he felt more than that. Much more. And hoped to find the words to tell her.

  He didn’t think she’d believe him, not after their distinctly rocky beginning and tempestuous middle.

  It’s not as if he’d had much practice proposing either, not like his old army friend and fellow baronet Sir Harry Chalmers. Harry had been engaged four or five times. He’d been spectacularly unlucky in love, but the man at least had an initial way with women and words. Harry seemed to propose every time he popped out of bed. A little advice might prove useful right about now.

  Of course, Bay had proposed once himself, thirteen long years ago. He couldn’t quite recall what he’d said to Anne to convince her to marry him, but in any event wouldn’t want to repeat that experience. He’d been a callow youth with years’ worth of worshipping her from afar, and she’d been a lonely young widow itching to get out of her parents’ house again. Anyone might have done for her back then, he thought sourly, except somehow she had become as fixated on him now as he was once with her. The fact that Anne had not stayed abroad was worrisome, but he shook his head free of those details. Now was not the time to be ruing the past and recent present. Now was the time to sweep Charlie off her feet with romance and enchantment.

  Charlie was already off her feet, lounging in innocent seduction on a stack of cushions. Her eyes were half closed, her lashes casting long shadows on her cheeks in the flickering light. Her alabaster skin glowed, and her lips were stained from the berries and the fine port that Frazier had packed. Bay wanted to kiss those lips, taste the berries and the wine and the tart and Charlie, so he did. She snuggled against him with a sigh.

  “This has been perfect.”

  He caressed her hand, bringing her knuckles to his lips. “The best is yet to come.”

  “What? Have you arranged for some entertainment? Dancing girls from your harem, perhaps? This all does remind me of an Oriental dream—the tent, the carpet, dining on pillows.”

  “I wouldn’t insult you with any other women, Charlie. You are the only one I need.”

  He felt her stiffen beneath him. Just pretty, insincere words, she’d be thinking. It was now or never.

  “Charlie, there’s something I want to talk to you about.” He ran a hand through his too-long hair. By God, he was nervous. “I’m not sure where to start.”

  She rolled back on the rug, tucking her legs beneath the dark robe. Her face was covered now with a jet curtain of hair. Just when he wished most to see her, she was drenched in shadow.

  “Charlie, look at me. I promise it’s not so terrible. You might even like it.”

  “Don’t spoil it, Bay.” Her voice was brittle. “Just let me have tonight. We can discuss me leaving tomorrow.”

  “Leaving! What the devil are you talking about?”

  “This—this holiday or whatever you wish to call it. Our time together is almost up. But I can go home sooner. Lo
rd knows I have plenty of work ahead of me. Why, my garden is probably a jungle! Those village boys won’t know—”

  He kissed her again to shut her up. She fought every parry and thrust. Just when he thought he had softened her, she broke away with surprising strength. Tears glistened like diamonds on her cheeks.

  “Charlie, sweetheart, don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”

  He should have written the words beforehand and read them. Always was handy with the ladies in a letter, each missive full of flights of fancy and romantic nonsense. But he’d never meant much by them—they were just a way to smooth his way into their beds. Tonight was different, and it was clear Charlie had no idea what was on his mind.

  “Marry me,” he blurted.

  “What?”

  She looked at him with her mouth flapping open, rather like a dazed fish who has realized life as he knew it was over.

  “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife, Charlotte Fallon?” He smiled. There. That was much better.

  “What?”

  “Good lord, Charlie, you’re making this difficult. You haven’t got water in your ears, have you?”

  “Water?”

  Well, that was an improvement over “what,” though they sounded rather alike. He took her hands in his. “Charlie, I am proposing marriage to you. It’s not something I do every day, mind you, and no doubt I’ve gone about it the wrong way. But you wouldn’t like it if I’d had years of practice and a past littered with wives and fiancées, would you? One is bad enough. And now,” he said, catching sight of her black eyebrows knitting together, “I’ve reminded you of Anne, which I’d hoped never to do. Blast.”

  Charlie seemed less fishlike, but her hands were cold as ice. “Let’s get closer to the little stove, shall we? You’re chilled.” He dragged her across the carpet and settled her in front of the camp stove. What he wouldn’t have given for one of these on the Peninsula. There were times he thought he’d freeze to death, but here he was, still alive, making a mess of the most important night of his life.

  “You want to marry me.”

  She sounded as if she were in some sort of trance, but at least she was talking sense. “Yes,” he said firmly. “Yes, I do.”

  “W-why?”

  “Because.” She’d have to settle for that. He hadn’t quite worked it through his own mind. Oh, he could go on about her delicious sinful body and her wicked sharp tongue, but taken together they didn’t add up. And he wasn’t about to babble on that he loved her. That she bespelled him. She’d think him an imbecile.

  “Because why?”

  Lord, she was stubborn. Here he’d offered her a life of comparative luxury and she was bedeviling him with questions. He cleared his throat and fixed his eye on the smiling face of the Man in the Moon. That fellow didn’t have to explain, just be and beam down. “We suit, you and I. You must agree we’ve gotten on great guns the weeks we’ve been here. I know you like Bayard Court, and it needs a chatelaine. I’ve decided to retire to the country, and you can keep me company.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Isn’t it enough? I can settle more money upon you if you like, although I won’t be a cheese-paring ogre. You’ll have whatever you need, and then some. And you love to garden. We can set up the conservatory again with all the plants in the kingdom.”

  “I’m not going to marry you because of plants,” she said, her voice rising. “Or housekeeping. Or money, you stupid man! Do you—do you love me?” She was practically screaming now.

  Bay reminded himself her tongue was a part of her body that he did in fact love. What harm would it do to tell her? She wasn’t Anne, about to control and subjugate him for his weakness. Charlie was a completely different soul. But he would keep the upper hand at all costs.

  “Whatever love is. I hold you in the deepest affection. You are not at all the woman I first thought you to be.”

  Bay suddenly found himself sprawled on his arse in the sand. Charlie was above him, shaking a little fist very close to his nose. He knew she was perfectly capable of using it, so he scrambled away. “What have I said? Of course I love you, you little shrew! Why else would I ask you to marry me? You haven’t any money, and you’re old! Mature, I mean, past your first season,” he said hastily, crawling sideways like a crab.

  “You utter fiend! How dare you!” Her hair lifted wildly in the breeze, making Bay think of a frenzy of black snakes. Snakes that seemed ready to inject their venom in him with glee.

  “Well, let’s be honest. You’re on the shelf,” he tried to reason. “We both have unfortunate pasts, but together we can make a good life.” He ducked too late as she flung sand at his face. “There’s no need of that.” He spat out a mouthful of grit, grateful her aim wasn’t higher. His sight was important to him, and right now Charlie was a vision as the High Priestess of Passion. The belt of her robe trailed in the sand, and she seemed unaware that her body was fully exposed to him in the moonlight. Her nipples were puckered with anger and cold, making him very interested in soothing them. “Sweetheart,” he attempted, “perhaps my choice of words was clumsy, but—”

  “Clumsy! What an understatement! Where is the man who wrote ‘I dream of you, despairing when the sun wakes me. For in the darkness you are near, your lips a crimson butterfly dancing from one end of me to another, delighting in my nectar’?”

  The words were absurd, yet somehow familiar. “What rubbish! What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Oh!” She twirled around in pique, swirling up a storm of sand. “I should have known better, truly I should. You’re right—I am ‘mature,’ old enough to know better. If you think I want some marriage of convenience—your convenience—you have another think coming!”

  “You silly woman! I just told you I loved you! What more do you want? Fealty? A blood oath? Find me a knife in the basket and it’s done.” He instantly regretted his words. An armed Charlie was not someone to be taken lightly. She could slice out his liver and serve it to him for a midnight snack without a qualm.

  So much for sleeping peacefully under the stars. Charlie was stomping off in the direction of the tunnel, tripping on her loose robe. He heard her snort of disgust and watched her tie herself up tight again. Just as well she went into the cool cave to cool down. He’d have to think up something brilliant when she came out to pacify her.

  Obviously the elaborate romantic setting had not been enough, and perhaps his statements had been less than heroic. One never reminded a woman of her age if one could help it. But how could Charlie not know how he felt about her? One didn’t do all they did together when one felt indifferent. Dispassionate. He pushed himself off the damp sand, brushing off his backside. He’d like to swat Charlie’s bum for tossing him down, the little baggage. Her temper was uncertain at the best of times. Why on earth did he want to saddle himself with her for eternity?

  Bay knew the answer. It was lodged like a chubby little fist in his heart. Charlie’s fist. He truly was putty in her hands, at her mercy, and that was no way to spend the rest of his years. But he could no more dislodge her fist than rip out his heart. They were one.

  He settled himself back on the old rug, supine and, yes, vulnerable, wondering what was taking her so long. She’d left the lantern behind, but he hadn’t heard her curse the darkness. He’d give her time. Privacy. He tucked a pillow under his head and gazed at the cloudless velvet sky. Thousands of stars twinkled above, dimmed a bit by the brightness of the full moon. From his position, he could see the stone door ajar. Surely she wouldn’t bumble in the dark through the passage up to the house—he’d only had Frazier clear the little room free of dust and cobwebs for the makeshift necessary room, and she would get unpleasant surprises if she were so foolish. In a minute or two he’d pick up the lantern, casually stroll up to the cave, and inquire as to her health. After all, she had drunk a fair amount of three kinds of wine. He’d like to think her choler was caused by overindulgence, but he knew he’d bungled his offer of marriage.


  The waves lapped in hypnotizing rhythm yards away, though Bay was alert to the nuances of the night. An owl flew slow and low over the beach in search of prey, its wingspan startling. There were encouraging hoots in the distance as the creature inspected Bay in a lazy loop.

  Bay tossed a crust onto the sand. “Go away. We need the rest for breakfast.” The owl couldn’t be bothered, but two sandpipers darted from the dunes and fought an energetic battle over the crumbs. Bay sat up to watch the racket, then pulled a watch from the pocket of his robe, a habit from the army he’d never broken. He needed to know what time it was, although he had nothing in particular to do but woo the woman he wanted to marry. A shadow intervened. Smiling his most charming smile, he turned.

  “Frazier told me where to find you.”

  Bay kept his smile in place, but his throat constricted. Lady Anne Whitley, cloaked from head to toe in widows’ black, edged up to the carpet, the silver barrel of her gun glinting. Bay took a deep breath, confirming his fears. The weapon had been fired recently, but he’d heard nothing out here except the birds, the waves, and the wind.

  “He didn’t want to tell me. Loyal to a fault, he is.”

  “I hope you haven’t done something foolish, Anne.” He kept his voice steady, but as loud as he dared, praying that Charlie would stay put.

  She shrugged, the hood of her cloak falling back. “He’ll live, if those stupid girls have their way. It was just a scratch.”

  Frazier would have been on the road to the village, walking the Toothaker sisters home. Perhaps between the two of them they had helped him to safety and then had the presence of mind to send someone after Anne before she shot the second man of her evening. If something happened to Frazier—

  Or to Charlie—

  Bay would kill Anne himself.

  He couldn’t think twice about it. The woman he had loved once had disappeared.

  He watched the gun waver. She was as nervous as he was.