“Knight?” she whispered.
“Yes, peach?” he said, his voice low, deep, alluring.
“Knight…my…my courage is failing me. Pray…” she began. But her voice was silenced by his mouth melting with her own. Desperation, the desire to hold him in her arms as long as she could, to kiss him, to have him kiss her…all of it was too unendurable, and she let her arms go around him, let her hands be lost in the softness of his hair.
After several long moments, he broke the seal of their kiss, stroking her hair as he gazed into her eyes and whispered, “I will not quit you this night, Fontaine. Nor will I quit your safety or virtue. But I mean to have the parts of you allowed me…your trust, your smile, the sound of your voice in my head as we talk.” He brushed another tear from her cheek and kissed the spot continuing, “The deep brown of your eyes, the feel of your skin on my palm, and the sweet taste of your kiss…those you will allow me this night. Will you not? Before I am made to quit you tomorrow?”
“Yes, Knight,” Fontaine whispered. Knight smiled, and Fontaine imagined there gathered moisture in the emerald of his eyes.
“Not the rogue enough to disrespect and dishonor your virtue perhaps,” he whispered. “Still, enough the rogue to intrude your bedchamber and draw pleasure from your lips.”
Then, midst the perfume of spring’s eventide, the passionate, heated kisses of the rogue, Knight, belonged to Fontaine…one last time.
CHAPTER NINE
The moonshine and starlight illuminated the shadowy spring night. The cool breeze carried the scent of wet grass into the coach, soothing Fontaine’s anxiety a bit as she and Knight traveled through the dark toward Yoke Mortan. She marveled for a moment at how truly simple their escape had been. Save the rather long walk to the woods where Knight’s hired coach and coachmen met them, there had been little difficulty in leaving.
The morning after Knight had explained his plot to her, the morning after he’d spent the entirety of the night in Fontaine’s company and bedchamber exchanging conversation and kisses, Fontaine simply pretended to be overwrought with heartbreak whenever her aunt inquired of her. To her aunt’s knowledge, Fontaine had never even left her room for the two days following Knight’s supposed quitting her.
Each time Lady Wetherton would knock on Fontaine’s bedchamber door, Fontaine would simply cry, “I…I am ill, Aunt. Please leave me to my miserable condition.” This seemed enough to convince Lady Wetherton that Knight had completed his contract with her and to deter from further pressing Fontaine in any manner. Marta had explained to Fontaine how her aunt seemed quite radiant and delighted with herself, and Fontaine knew her aunt was basking in her supposed triumph at breaking Fontaine’s heart and spirit. Furthermore, it had kept Lady Wetherton from finding the chance to inform Fontaine of her plans where Lord Greenville was concerned.
With things as they were, it had been easy enough to slip away into the cover of a spring’s night the day before. Now darkness was upon them again, and Fontaine was on her way to Yoke Mortan, to this Lady Lightender, to a freedom of sorts. Yet, it took every ounce of strength her body could muster to push thoughts of heartache and loneliness from her mind. With Knight’s plan set in motion came the loss of him, and often Fontaine thought she might wither and die when the dreaded moment arrived she must bid him farewell. In fact, she well imagined herself bursting into tears and sobbing, throwing herself at his feet and begging him to take her with him, not to leave her behind.
So many times during their long coach ride she’d nearly lost her will to resist him, nearly thrown herself into his arms, confessing her unrivaled love for him, and begging him to keep her. So many times she’d nearly done it. So many times, and she wondered if she would do it yet.
Knight seemed preoccupied, rather brooding in his own right. Fontaine assumed his manner was purely the result of the anxiety induced by acting out such a dangerous conspiracy. He had explained to her he would not rest easy until she was settled in with Lady Lightender and he was on his way, bait for any investigators her aunt might send.
Still, as she considered him, studied his proud and strong profile in the low lamplight within the coach, he looked much troubled, not simply anxious.
“Knight?” she asked, at last. “Are you well?”
“Of course,” he mumbled, looking at her and rather forcing a smile. “Merely impatient to arrive.”
“How long have we yet to travel?” she asked him.
“Four hours…my estimate from what Barnes told me at our last stop,” he answered. He looked to her again and asked, “How are you feeling? Are you frightened still?”
Fontaine sighed. “Yes…but not as deeply as I was yesterday,” she answered. “The further I travel from Aunt Wetherton, the better I feel. And you? What are your thoughts?”
“My thoughts?” he asked. “My thoughts are this…by now your aunt has discovered you are missing and that, likewise, so is her traitorous coachman. By now she will be deciding what to do…search you out, returning you to The Graces, and forcing you to marry Lord Greenville? Or will she wait, biding her time…allowing it all to play out and hoping you come to some dreadful end, some sad ruination? Perhaps she will trust in my corruption of you becoming so complete that the terms of the will fall to her benefit. Therefore, my thoughts are these…which will her evil heart choose as the most significant benefit to herself? To endeavor to ensure your utter and complete unhappiness by stripping you of me and giving you into Lord Greenville’s hands? Or will she choose to let you go in contemplation of owning your fortune?”
Fontaine felt a cold chill travel through her body at the consideration of Knight’s thoughts. And although her aunt existed many and many miles behind her, still she existed, and Fontaine too wondered which road she would choose. Which was stronger in the witch—hatred and loathing for her niece? Or the desire for wealth of her own?
Nearly an entire day had passed since the moment Lady Carileena Wetherton had been informed of Fontaine’s disappearance. Of Fontaine’s and of Knight’s. Sitting in the large chair in the library of The Graces, the lady considered on the situation. She could not accuse Knight of kidnapping or theft, for she herself had been ignorant enough to sign a parchment attesting to the truth of his being paid for the completion of a contract. Therefore, if she were to contact the constable, accuse Knight of kidnapping Fontaine, attempting to gain the help of the law to retain her…then she would be found out via her own signed confession of conspiracy.
The woman then screamed out with frustration! Her plans, all her plotting, all of it foiled! How hard she had worked to gain Lord Greenville’s trust, to gain his alliance, convincing him that having such a young beauty as Fontaine for his own was far worth the price he would pay Lady Wetherton in return. Lord Greenville had finally agreed to gift Lady Wetherton half of all Fontaine’s inheritance, once the girl was legally wed him and the Pratina fortune became his by the statutes of the law.
And now, now she could not even view the terms of her brother-in-law’s will! For the young trollop had spirited that away as well! Still, she was certain she remembered the inheritance terms correctly, and if Fontaine had indeed run off to marry a simple coachman, the entire Pratina fortune then fell to her guardian. And being Fontaine’s guardian, this meant the fortune would fall to Lady Carileena Wetherton.
Drawing in a breath of contemplation, the woman reflected. Perhaps she should reconsider her rage. Perhaps Fontaine had simply handed her aunt more than she had even hoped for. In truth, which was the brighter road? To see Fontaine miserable, gaining only half of all that was to be hers? Or to see Fontaine disappear altogether and gain everything that would have been hers?
With the freedom such a fortune would merit, suddenly, though greatly vexed at being tricked by an insipid adolescent and a coachman who was too handsome for anyone’s good…suddenly Lady Wetherton found herself reevaluating the circumstances.
Yes! Perhaps the action to take was none. None othe
r than ensuring Fontaine did fall prey to the stipulations of marriage and inheritance in her father’s will. Perhaps the wisest thing to do was let the girl marry her miserable, poverty-bound coachman. After all, how long would two years’ wages last?
A relieved, triumphant smile spread across Lady Wetherton’s face as she studied the magnificent library of The Graces. Yes, she would wait…wait for Fontaine to ruin her chances of inheriting, and all simply because a handsome coachman had caught her fancy. Her smile broadened, for after all, who had put the handsome coachman in her path in the first place?
Knight sighed, his expression softening into a sincere smile. “I’ve been a miserable traveling companion, haven’t I?”
“You’ve much responsibility, much to worry about,” she told him. “I am merely the pawn, while you are the one in danger…the one who must carry out this plan.”
“Pray do not make me out too heroic, peach,” he chuckled. “I am quite wicked, in truth.”
Fontaine smiled at him and linked her arm through his. “Wicked men do not set free silly damsels without demanding recompense…of some sort or the other.”
“I am wicked, all the same,” he told her, the emerald of his eyes smoldering with emotion. “I only pray you never discover just how wicked.” Fontaine smiled at him, deciding to change the subject of their conversation. She would not allow him to linger on ill thoughts of himself.
“Have you known Barnes long?” she asked. Barnes was the man who met her and Knight with the coach, in the woods near The Graces. He was a tall, dark, serious-looking man, dressed in black, his hat pulled down low over his brow.
“He is my…” Knight began. He seemed to seize himself, however, as if he’d nearly revealed a secret. “He has been my friend for many years, and I trust him unfailingly,” he answered, finally.
“Is he continuing on with you?” Fontaine asked. “Once you’ve put me off in Yoke Mortan?” Oh, how she wished she would be continuing on with Knight. She unconsciously moved closer to him.
“He is…for a time,” Knight confirmed. Fontaine loathed Barnes for a moment, envious that he should remain with Knight. “However,” Knight continued, “I am not putting you off in Yoke Mortan, as you state it. I am letting you off in Yoke Mortan.”
“I wish you would not let me off at all, Knight,” Fontaine whispered. She could no longer restrain the thought from escaping and closed her eyes tightly, attempting to contain the tears, which wanted so badly to release.
Her eyes opened once more, however, when Knight took her chin in hand, forcing her to look up at him.
“Please do not tempt me, Fontaine,” he angrily growled. “I must do what is best for you, and life with a wicked man, a man who does not deserve you in any regard…would not be best for you.”
Tears spilled onto Fontaine’s cheeks as she asked, “Why are you so wicked, Knight? What manner of things have you done to cause you to be termed wicked?”
“Many,” he mumbled. Fontaine noted the way his gaze fell to her lips, his tongue moistening his own. “Particularly of late.”
“I’ve seen none of these wicked things,” she told him. His hand moved from her chin to caress her cheek, brushing at a tear. “I’ve seen only your compassion toward me, the great sacrifices you’ve made on my behalf.”
“Sacrifices?” he chuckled. “What sacrifices? I’ve been paid two years’ wages to have my thirst for you quenched by your kiss.”
“Two years’ wages that you promptly used to free me from my bleak future,” she reminded him.
He smiled, brushing more tears from her cheeks with his thumb. “Are these tears for me, then?” he whispered. “For you shouldn’t waste them on such a rogue as I am, Fontaine.” He did not kiss her, but wrapped her in his arms, pulling her against the warmth of his powerful body. “You should rest now. Yoke Mortan and Lady Lightender are in four hours, and you have slept little these past days.”
He would say no more to her, and she knew it, so she slipped her arms inside his cloak and around his waist. He had not moved to kiss her since the night he’d spent in her bedchamber, and she knew he would never kiss her again. It was his way of beginning to put a distance between them. Oh, perhaps he had been her lover, found himself enjoying her company and affections far more than he first intended, for she had sensed the sincerity in him. But it was the past now, and only the future lay ahead, and Fontaine reminded herself of her own voluntary submission to loving him, knowing he would be stripped away from her. And she would find joy in it, somehow. Joy mingled with unendurable pain perhaps, but joy all the same.
Knight squeezed his eyes tightly shut, a tear escaping down his cheek to be lost in the soft fragrance of Fontaine’s hair as her head rested on his chest. How had he allowed this to go so far? How had he allowed himself to fall in love with her?
It had all seemed so simple weeks before…so simple to plan out the recompense of an obligation. Manipulate the manipulative witch until he found a way to help her niece and then act on it. He hadn’t foreseen his becoming so attached to Fontaine. Or had he? He wondered as he felt her arms relax about him, an indication sleep had overtaken her at last. He wondered if, from the very beginning, from the moment he opened his eyes to find himself in the sickroom at Pratina Manor, a lovely young woman at his side…had he known then he would love her? If so, why did he lie to her? Her, of all those he’d met on his travels, why hadn’t he told her the truth from the first moment? Simply because he understood her unspoken disapproving revulsion of his kind? Had that been the only reason? Perhaps he would never know why he had lied to her about so many things, but he had, and that was that. There was no mending such deception.
Oh, how desperately he wanted her, wanted to own her, hold her, love her! Wanted to see her eyes in those of his children. But she was better than he was, deserved better than him, and he would see her have it.
He inhaled deeply the scent of her hair, let his chin rest in its softness. How he wanted her mouth to his! How he wanted one last taste of her kiss! But the time had come to let her go, and one last kiss might be the end of his determination to save her. One last kiss might break his will to protect her, causing him to keep her, take her with him no matter the consequences. And for her sake, for the sake and safety of his lovely, delicious peach, he must find strength…an unselfish strength the like he had never been able to find in himself before.
Oh, but he loved her! How madly he loved her! How he would always love her…the deep brown of her eyes, the gold of her hair, her compassion, her beauty, her kiss.
Another tear escaped his eye, coming to rest atop her head, and he kissed her there…just where his tear had moistened her hair…kissed her again and again, softly as to not wake her. And Knight held Fontaine in his arms, safe in his arms…for the very last time.
“Oh, she’s an angel, Knight!” Lady Lightender exclaimed, throwing her arms around Fontaine and hugging her tightly. “An angel!”
Fontaine could not help but smile as the woman released her, a resplendent smile on her lovely, wrinkled face.
“Yes, Penelope, she is,” Knight chuckled. “Did the trunks…”
“Oh, yes, yes!” Lady Lightender interrupted. “Just yesterday, and they are safely tucked away in your chambers, love…all ready to welcome you to Hunter’s Bingham.”
“Thank you, Lady Lightender,” Fontaine squeaked out, smiling at the woman’s cheery face. Lady Lightender was herself an angel. White-haired and blue-eyed, her uncommonly rosy complexion gave her the look of a heavenly being indeed. Still, Fontaine’s smile faded quickly, tears spilling from her eyes, for Knight would be gone. In another moment, she knew he would be gone.
“Oh, there, there, there, sweetheart,” Lady Lightender cooed, wiping at Fontaine’s tear-stained cheeks with the handkerchief in her hand. “It won’t be so terribly bad as that. I’m a good conversationalist, well-versed in the poets and in the art of gossip.” Fontaine smiled through her tears
at the woman’s tender encouragements.
“I’ll take my leave then, milady,” Knight grumbled. Fontaine forced herself to turn, to face him before he left.
“Th…Thank you, Knight,” she choked. “For…for helping me.”
Knight only nodded, and Fontaine noted the tight set of his jaw, the excess moisture in his eyes. Then, turning he strode toward the door.
Please come back to me, Fontaine thought. Come back to me…just once more.
Then, as if his mind had somehow heard the silent thoughts of her mind and heart, Knight spun around striding rather angrily toward her. Fontaine gasped as he took hold of her waist, pushing her back against the wall, his mouth descending to hers as if he meant to devour her entirely.
His kiss was driven and rough…yet exhilarating beyond description. Fontaine let her fingers weave themselves deeply through his hair, attempting to pull him closer, drink more deeply of his fiery kiss. He broke from her, his eyes locking with hers for a moment, both his chest and hers rising and falling with the labored breathing invoked of passion.
“Knight,” she breathed, but any further utterance was silenced as his mouth took hers once more, drinking of her ardor for him with one last powerful kiss. And then he was gone, having released her and exiting Hunter’s Bingham as swiftly as his long legs could carry him.
“Barnes!” she heard him shout as he slammed the door behind him.
“Oh, my,” Fontaine Lady Lightender exclaimed, obviously affected by what had just transpired before her. “I am beginning to think that, perhaps, Knight was not as forthcoming as he might have been in telling me his reasons for wanting to hide you away.”
Fontaine tried to breathe, put her hand to her throat, attempting to remain conscious, for the pain, the utter ache wracking her body threatened to be the end of her.
“Sit down, darling,” the woman said, taking Fontaine’s arm and leading her to a nearby chair. “Murtle!” she called. “Murtle! A glass of water. Quickly!” In another moment, an elderly maid appeared and handed a glass filled with water to Lady Lightender.
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