by Jo Beverley
Chastity settled back in the coach, unsure what to worry about first—Cyn’s health, the paper, or the fact that the formidable Marquess of Rothgar had likely joined the hunt. It was only as they rolled away from the inn that she realized she’d forgotten to get rid of the dratted Gazette.
“Hoskins says Rothgar will be on your trail,” she said.
Cyn flashed her an unreadable look and took off his bonnet and cap. “He may not even know I’ve flown the coop.”
“You make it sound as if he keeps you in chains.”
“Bonds of affection can be as strong as bars.”
Chastity sensed she was stepping on delicate ground, but she persisted. “I would have thought it would be no bad thing to be caught by the marquess. His power could be an asset.”
“If one could be sure which side he’d be on.”
That gave Chastity pause. To have Rothgar against them would be truly disastrous.
“We had best get on with it,” Verity interrupted firmly. “Draw down the shades, Chas, and take William.”
Chastity obeyed, then in the shadowy coach her sister helped Cyn with the infamous laces. Chastity smiled at the memory of their earlier adventure with the gown—a memory she would treasure…
She hastily concentrated on the babe. He was awake and happy to play. She gave him the newspaper, hoping he would gum it to a pulp, or shred it, but he despised such dull stuff. His eye was caught instead by Cyn’s scabbarded sword in the corner. Chastity picked it up and let him play with the bright ribbons and gilded hilt.
Cyn glanced over. “Don’t let him touch the blade.” The fact that William was gumming the ribbons didn’t seem to bother him at all. Truly, his very carelessness entranced her. He’d be a wonderful father…
Stop it, Chastity.
Cyn soon shed his dress, shift, and stockings—which items raised a giggle from Verity—right down to his drawers. Chastity hadn’t considered this additional hazard to the changing arrangements—that it would have him changing in front of her.
Chastity found herself studying Cyn’s legs and torso, and hastily averted her eyes. He pulled out his uniform and began to struggle into his white breeches. It necessitated thrusting first one bare leg then the other right by Chastity; there was no other way. She hastily passed William back to Verity before he was kicked.
She then wriggled to the side—almost incidentally ending up on top of the newspaper—but she couldn’t get far from his legs. The sight of the hard muscles dusted with golden hair dried her mouth.
He bent his knee a little to reach the cuff and pull it over his heel. Verity squeaked as his elbow jabbed her.
“Hell. I’m sorry. This is a lot harder than I thought. Charles, work the thing over my heel, will you?”
Chastity gulped but obeyed. It necessitated grasping first his calf and then his warm, naked foot, which didn’t do her thundering heart any good at all. She had always ignored feet, but now here was a fine specimen in her hands. She was assailed by the strangest desire to kiss his instep.
Now his other foot appeared for her attention. She pushed his breeches over that heel, too, sighing with relief to have the task done.
He half rose and wriggled the garment up to his waist. “Thank you. Perhaps you could help with the stockings, too.”
Chastity looked up sharply to see him holding out white silk stockings. Red-faced with embarrassment, she eased the hose onto his long elegant toes, over his arched instep, and up his hard calf.
“Smooth them out a bit,” he said rather gruffly.
Chastity flashed him a look, but he appeared fully involved with his shirt. She threw caution to the winds. How many more opportunities would she have to touch his body as she wished to? She kept her eyes lowered as she ran her hands up his calves, smoothing out every wrinkle, slowly and meticulously. Then she repeated the act on his other leg.
Her heartbeat was not fast anymore. It pounded in a deep way which made her dizzy. A heavy warmth pressed on her lower abdomen…
After a moment she realized it was coming from his right foot which rested low on her stomach as she attended to his left. His heel nestled snugly at the juncture of her thighs. A part of her very close to that heel throbbed like a wound, and she had an almost overwhelming urge to spread her thighs and push against him.
She tightened instead and moved his foot away. “There,” she said.
“Thank you.” he drawled, and tied his own garters. “I assure you, dear Charles, I’ll happily do as much for you one day.” He tucked in his shirt. “Ah, that feels better. Feel as if I’ve regained the use of my legs.” He shrugged into the long, white waistcoat, fastened the eight silver buttons, then tied the scarlet sash.
Next he pulled out his regimental coat. It was a fine sight—scarlet with buff facings, glittering with gold braid on cuffs, pockets, and buttonholes down both sides. It took a fair amount of contortions, and a few muttered curses, but eventually he had the trim-fitting garment on. Now he looked a soldier in truth.
He tied a black stock around his collar and hung the silver gorget of rank around his neck. He smiled. “I must say, I feel more myself than I have in an age. I think I’ll leave off the boots, however, until we stop. I’ll probably kick one of you in the face if I attempt to put them on now.” He opened his dressing-case and used a small container of water to scrub off his rouge. Then he took out a comb, mirror, and ribbon.
He passed the mirror to Chastity. “Hold that, dear boy, while I struggle with my hair.”
Chastity watched as he combed his tawny curls and tied them neatly enough at his nape. She had always scoffed at young ladies who were aux anges at the sight of a scarlet coat, but now she felt the affliction. Captain Cyn Malloren looked magnificent in his regimentals. But then, to her he would look magnificent in anything.
Now, however, he had lost that illusion of softness. He looked authoritative, capable of handling any emergency, and ready for dangerous heroics. Chastity was reminded all too keenly that he was a soldier, and that dangerous heroics were his business. With the emphasis on dangerous. What had he said? “Blood is the god of war’s rich livery…”
They would part in a day or two. He would soon forget a prickly youth called Charles, would never even know she was a woman, a woman who… who felt warmly toward him.
She, on the other hand, would never forget him. For the rest of her life she would study the army news, hoping for word of him. She would scrutinize casualty lists in fear that his name would one day appear, a bleak acknowledgment that the laughter had been cruelly stilled…
His voice jerked her out of her brown study. “Now,” he said, “let’s transform Verity.”
“You are having nothing to do with it,” said Chastity. “‘Twould be indecent.”
His lips twitched. ‘“I don’t think your sister is as sensitive in these matters as you, sir.”
“I—”
“Pax!” called Verity in amusement. “I will be stripping no further than my shift, and though that is rather risque. I am quite able to handle the matter. However, I think Lord Cyn should hold William.” She passed over the baby, who was immediately entranced by the gold braid. “I don’t think he’s likely to leak all over your magnificence, my lord, but I make no guarantee.”
Cyn did not appear dismayed. “I’ve always held there’s something suspicious about a pristine uniform. Rothgar thought my war-weary gear beneath the dignity of a Malloren—particularly as it had been chopped about in the cause of practicality in the backwoods. He insisted on ordering this for me just weeks ago. It needs breaking in or I’ll be taken for a Johnny Newcome.”
Without apparent embarrassment, Verity worked her way out of her coarse servant’s garments, and into Cyn’s other outfit—the gray petticoat, the blue-and-black stomacher, and the Prussian-blue sacque. She knelt so Chastity could tie the stomacher laces, but managed the loose gown by herself.
Verity’s ample bosom filled this bodice without assistance. Cyn stuffed the wool
into his portmanteau.
Nothing could be done with Verity’s greasy hair other than to comb it into a tight knot. With the cap and bonnet she looked genteel, but severe. That very severity disguised her, but it would not fool a relative.
“Keep out of sight,” Cyn advised, “and when in public, keep your head lowered. Remember, people are looking for a fugitive, not a respectable matron, and peopie generally see what they expect to see.” He looked at Chastity. “Now you, young Charles.”
Chastity shrugged out of her velvet coat and pulled on the breeches and shirt over her brother’s clothes. She took off her cravat and knotted the spotted kerchief around her neck in its stead. She pulled the flat-brimmed hat firmly down over her wig. “There,” she said.
His smile was wry. “One of these days your modesty is going to land you in trouble, Charles my lad.”
Chastity engaged herself in stuffing all the discarded clothes into the box.
Silence fell, and the shadowy coach became disconcertingly intimate. The babe grew sleepy in Cyn’s arms. Both of them seemed remarkably at ease with the situation.
Chastity leaned back in her seat, pretending to be resting, but really studying Cyn Malloren through her lashes. Her relatively short lashes. She resented his lush lashes, but lusted after them for her children.
Stop it, Chastity.
It was no good. Her eyes insisted on drinking in the sight of Cyn and storing it away for the bleak future. His head was turned slightly away, so she could safely run her gaze along the firm line of his profile. To her surprise, she detected a resemblance to Rothgar. In ten or more years would Cyn be as intimidating? She doubted it. She didn’t think Rothgar had ever had the reckless devil-may-care side to him which was Cyn’s most marked feature, and one she loved.
His hands were beautiful, made more so by the gentle way they cradled the babe. How had she not noticed their quality before? They were long-fingered, and capable of strength or gentleness. She remembered them stroking her head and neck in that strange kiss, and wanted to be touched by them again. Even at the thought, a shiver of desire passed through her.
Cyn could feel Chastity’s eyes on him like a heated touch. A few stolen glances had shown her studying him like an artist working on a portrait. He wished he had the same indulgence, but there would be other times, and he was pleased enough to have her so intent on him.
At least, part of him was pleased—his wicked part. It gleefully anticipated the time when they would have opportunity to explore each other fully.
His noble side bellowed that he must tell her he knew her to be female, so she would recover her maidenly modesty.
Except, of course, she wasn’t a maiden.
He’d suspected from the first that she was not cold, or barred off from sensuality. Now he knew it to be true. A few moments ago her touch on his legs had been a lover’s touch, and he’d been hard-pressed to maintain control. If it hadn’t been for Verity he feared he’d have pulled his damsel into his arms for a ravishing kiss, and very likely more.
The coach passed through the next change without a problem, and Cyn and Verity stepped down for a moment to give everyone a clear sight of the captain and his lady. No one questioned them, but Chastity detected one lounging man whose eyes seemed markedly sharp. He did not look suspicious, however.
When they rolled on, she said, “Did you see…?”
“Yes,” said Cyn soberly. “It could be nothing, and I’d thought we’d lose the hunt by turning south. One thing’s clear. We can’t risk stopping on the road. We’d never conceal the presence of a baby at an inn.”
“But the light’s already fading,” said Verity, pallid with fear and exhaustion.
“We’ll manage with the coach-lights,” said Cyn. “It’s not far now. We have to press on. In Winchester we will be a few among thousands, and we have a private place to stay. On the road we’ll stick out wherever we stop.”
He was remarkably sober for Cyn Malloren. Chastity knew he shared her concern at the tightness of the net thrown over the south of England. It was not so much a search for a missing person, as a hunt for a fugitive. Her father’s work, she was sure.
The baby woke and had to be fed, which distracted Verity from her fears. Chastity wished there was something reassuring she could say to her sister, who was afraid her child’s life was in jeopardy. Nothing came to mind except that they were doing their best, and had a fighting chance. Largely thanks to Cyn. Without him, they would doubtless have been caught hours ago.
Cyn pondered the intense search and knew there was more to this escapade than appeared on the surface. He studied the sisters, wondering which was lying, and about what, and why.
After a loud, squishy rumble, it became obvious William needed his cloth changed. Very obvious. They had previously stopped to allow Verity to do this in the open air. Now, however, time was pressing and they did not want the postilions to know they had a baby here, so she accomplished the messy business in the coach with the windows open. The smell was surprisingly cheesy, but very strong. Unfortunately, Verity had only one small bottle of water with which to clean the child.
All in all, Cyn thought, trying hard not to pull a face like an affronted dowager, babies were not a romantic business. A man would have to be mad even to consider having a family while following the drum.
When she’d finished, Verity looked at the soiled rags. “The coach is going to stink of this,” she said apologetically.
“Throw them out the window,” Cyn suggested. “The post-boys will never notice.”
When he saw the tentative way she prepared to do it, he sighed. “Give it to me.” Why was it, he wondered, that nothing he’d encountered in war seemed quite as revolting as this squishy, pungent bundle? He took aim and hurled it over the passing hedge, and into the field beyond. Then he wished he had the means of washing his hands.
“If we want him to sleep later,” Verity said, “we had best play with him now.”
She sang songs and clapped William’s hands in time to the tune. She bounced him gently on her knee. She laid him on his back and played “This Little Piggy” with his toes. William chuckled and gurgled in the most obliging way. Cyn’s enthusiasm for the continuation of the species revived. He glanced at his damsel. She watched the play with a totally feminine, maternal smile. She’d be a good mother.
Something tightened inside him.
He emphatically did not want her to have children with any man except himself. Plague take it. How had he fallen into this mess?
He tried out a few phrases in his mind. My dear Lady… what? Charlotte? If her name was Charlotte he’d forbid her ever to use it again. My dear Lady Charles, I am deeply, wantonly attracted to the notion of marrying you and carrying you off to the war. I’m afraid a lot of your time will be spent away from me in billets in a foreign land—I do hope you are quick to learn foreign languages and customs—but I will come to you as often as the fighting allows. Of course you could stay with the regiment if you don’t mind fleas, and mud, and the neverending duty of tending wounds and sickness…
He sighed. Her enthusiasm would be overwhelming.
He could sell out. Rothgar was pushing for it because of those stupid doctors, but Cyn had no desire to settle to a peaceful life. He would miss the camaraderie, the purpose, the challenge, the excitement, and the foreign lands. Lazing around London or growing turnips in the country would bore him to death, and doubtless lead him into mischief.
After all, boredom had embroiled him in this adventure.
His damsel laughed at the babe, her face reflecting the child’s glowing delight. There was nothing cold or hard in her at all.
Plague take it.
Cyn sought distraction and saw the crumpled paper.
The light was going, and so he made a flame and lit one of the candle-sconces. Then he reached over and picked up the Gazette, turning to the news of the war.
The Americans remained quiet and it seemed French power there was crushed. There app
eared to be unrest in the colonies about new taxes designed to pay for their recent defense. That would soon fade. Most of the news concerned the scandalous Czarina Catherine of Russia, and the Prussian advance against Austria. Perhaps he would end up posted to Hanover or some such place. After the unpredictable wilderness of the New World, he feared it would be tame.
Having finished the military news, he looked up at the women. “Would you like me to read some items to you?”
“Yes, please,” said Verity.
“No!” exclaimed Charles.
Interesting, thought Cyn. Again, she jibbed at a newssheet. What on earth could she have done to attract the interest of the press? He began to read aloud. He read a piece about the turmoil in Russia, and another about improvements in iron-casting, but all the time he scanned the pages for anything related to his damsel.
He found it.
He skipped over the crucial item to read about a fire in Dover, and the trial of a sensational murderer who had apparently poisoned half his family before being caught. But he read slowly and managed to glean the other story at the same time.
It concerned Verity’s disappearance, not Charles, and did not conflict with the story they had told. What then was the problem?
According to the paper, there was widespread concern as to the fate of the widow and child of Sir W****m V****m. It was feared that Lady V****y V****m had lost her wits because of the death of her husband and her recent confinement, which had by great good fortune produced an heir for the deceased nobleman. Both her father and her husband’s family were offering a handsome reward for information which would return the afflicted lady to their loving care.
The rest of the item was genealogical.
Lady V****y had been, before her marriage, Lady V***** W***, daughter of the Earl of W****e, and sister to Lady C*****y W***…
Cyn stopped reading. Finally his memory had been triggered, and he could fill in all the missing letters.
His damsel’s name was Chastity Ware.
