by Laura Parker
Before Cassandra could say a word, he swung a leg over onto the first rung of the rope ladder and pulled her to the edge of the casement with his left arm. She could not repress a whimper of fear that he would drop her, but his grip was surprisingly firm. Well-tempered muscles bunched and rippled in the arm encircling her waist as she slipped over the edge of the sill. Squeezing her eyes shut, she whispered hoarsely, “Do not drop me. Please, please, not with the child.”
“And lose my promised fortune?” he replied cheerfully in her ear as he began a careful descent of the ropes.
Cassandra felt herself being lowered, suspended by her arms like a millstone about the neck of a stranger, and for the first time in more than a year genuine amusement moved in her. She was being helped to steal her own son by a man whose motives she could not imagine. What began as a choked sob turned inexplicably into laughter. How vexed the marquess would be when he learned of her escape!
Chapter Six
The night air dragged playfully at her skirt, billowing it to heights that displayed her trim ankles and shapely calves, as Cassandra pressed her face against the Frenchman’s hard flat chest to keep out of sight of the lazily tilting ground far below. With each step he took she swung a little away, but the steel band of his arm kept her from jarring against him.
The minutes seemed to drag by as she listened to his deep but even breathing. The additional burden of herself and her son made the man’s movements awkward, yet he neither groaned nor complained. Finally, she felt the jolt as he planted a foot on the ground. For an instant he stood perfectly still, breathing hard and seemingly unaware of the burden looped around his neck. Feeling ridiculous because her feet did not touch the earth, Cassandra wiggled uncomfortably.
“Ma petite madame s’impatiente,” he said softly, teasing her for her impatience. Strong hands encircled her waist and then she was lifted so that the weight was taken from her arms and she could remove them from his neck.
He held her a moment, as if enjoying touching her, and the contact plucked a familiar chord within Cassandra yet again. It was dark, too dark to view clearly his features, but for an instant she was sharply aware of the breadth of his shoulders that stretched his leather jerkin and of the powerful hands warmly clasped about her waist. She knew she should not allow this, but his touch was oddly gentle and it forestalled her protest. Before she could be certain why, she was set down.
Sensing what her next action would be, the stranger put a silencing finger to her lips. “Not a word, chérie.”
His quiet tone held no note of urgency or anxiousness, but it killed her desire to speak. When he took Adam from her back she expected him to hand the boy to her. Instead, he secured the child firmly but with an easy assuredness in the crook of his left arm. “It’s easier for me,” he said simply as he reached out to untie her hands. “Come, madame. We must be quick.”
The pace he set struck every other thought from Cassandra’s mind as they hurried across the open grounds behind the house. The earth which looked so soft and smoothly green in the summer sunshine was in reality pocked with ankle-turning holes and boulders. The lush grasses spattered her with dew and greenthorned weeds caught and puckered the hem of her beautiful gown as she struggled to keep up with the long legs beside her. The night breeze tugged at the small lace cap upon her head and finally plucked it away, together with most of the pins that held her thick brown hair coiled in place. Hair streamed in a silky flood down over her shoulders and into her eyes, but the hard hand at her elbow forced to keep apace until the shadow of trees fell across their path.
When the comte paused, Cassandra swept the hair from her eyes and looked back over her shoulder. In the distance the gritstone walls of Briarcliffe thrust a dark solid shadow against the night. Behind that forbidding exterior the marquess was still entertaining, completely unaware of his daughter-in-law’s flight.
Cassandra felt a prickling delight at her situation. It was an absurd, deliberately foolish delight. She was risking her life and that of her son with a man she’d known less than an hour. “You’ve promised to see me to London. Don’t forget the reward,” she whispered in hopes of hearing a reassuring response.
A sharp “Sh!” was her only answer and the prickling changed to gooseflesh, but Cassandra realized she had come too far to turn back. When he motioned her before him she obeyed after a backward glance at her child. Adam, at least, knew nothing of her fears and lay curled in trusting sleep. It occurred to her that he had never before done so in the arms of a stranger.
A few minutes later they stepped onto the stony road. The sky seemed bright when compared with the darker canopy of the trees, and Cassandra raised her eyes to the stars, like diamonds in the blue velvet.
“Oui. A night for lovers.” The Frenchman’s voice sounded quite near in the stillness. “Have you a lover, madame?”
Color flooding her cheeks, Cassandra turned an angry stare on the tall, dark man beside her. “Perhaps I’ve risked earning your contempt by fleeing in this manner, but do not mistake my intention. My only wish is to reach London and Nicholas.”
“Ah!” he cried lightly, amusement uppermost as he gently bounced the baby in his arms. “Your virtue is safe, madame.”
Cassandra turned away from the smirking man, cross with herself for having even answered his impudence.
A whistled phrase issued from his lips, and a moment later Cassandra heard the bump and stumble of a carriage on the lane. Soon a small private coach appeared on the road ahead, round and shiny black, looking like a giant beetle drawn by a pair of horses.
The coachman’s face was shielded by his hat, but she had the impression that he smiled as he leaned down from his perch and said, “There ye be, guv’nor. And with a lady, I see!”
“London-bound we are, Sharp,” Cassandra heard her companion say as he snatched open the carriage door. With a hand on her elbow, he lifted her up before him and then hoisted himself up into the carriage and shut the door. Quickly and easily he shifted his bulk into the seat opposite her despite the vehicle’s lurch as it moved down the lane.
Adam had not made a sound until now. The rhythm of his breathing changed and he gave a fretful cry.
“Your enfant stirs,” the Frenchman observed.
Cassandra reached out her arms in the dark. “Please let me hold him. I can hardly be accused of not keeping pace in the coach.”
For a moment she thought the request would be denied her. Even as her gaze searched the dark for the shape of her son, the babe roused himself to full wakefulness with a piercing wail. “My son,” she repeated with calm authority and was rewarded with the weight of her child.
She heard the Frenchman stir and then the scrape of flint and tinder. An instant later, a tiny flame began to grow on the wick of the lantern he had balanced on his knee. Gradually the flame grew higher and wider until the interior of the coach was fully lit.
“Voila! That is better,” he said cheerfully as he hung it on its peg.
Cassandra blinked twice against the harsh yellow light before her gaze settled on the face of the stranger opposite her. The hairs of his wig had been picked at by the wind and a fine sheen of perspiration had removed much of the rice powder, revealing a swarthier complexion than was usual among aristocrats. Faintly alarmed by the one blue eye staring back at her, she dropped her gaze to her son.
“I’d given up the thought of ever seeing you again, Cassie.”
The words were spoken in a rich deep voice devoid of accent. The voice startled her so badly she nearly dropped her son. Her head snapped up and she met again the single blue eye watching her. In bewilderment, her gaze slipped over his broad shoulders encased in leather as if in expectation of some change. “Wha—what did you say?”
Her question provoked a smile from the Frenchman and he reached out to tenderly cup her face in his hand. “What is it, Cassie? Don’t say you’ve forgotten me?”
“Don’t!” Surprised by his touch, C
assandra jerked away. But he did not stop; he reached out and grasped her firmly by arms just above the elbows and lifted her, child and all, into his lap. Frightened now, Cassandra cried out, but he stopped her voice with his own mouth.
His lips were warm and moist, his breath sweet and hot in her mouth. Encumbered by the child in her arms, Cassandra could raise only one hand to push the man away. His cheek was rough under her fingertips and she thought, absurdly, that he would soon need a shave. Lowering her hand in search of a vulnerable spot, she encountered a strong steady pulse at his throat. She was not dreaming, he was real, as real as the lips trailing down her cheek to her own throat.
“I’ve missed you so, Cassie,” he murmured into the soft curve of her neck.
“No! Please don’t!” Cassandra moaned, pushing him away so that the tingling of her skin stopped. She shook her head, staring at the man whose features were not as she remembered but whose kiss recalled an impossibility. It couldn’t be! It was not possible! Merlyn Ross was dead!
“Let me go,” she begged faintly, feeling an undertow of unreality dragging at her. “You will have your reward, I swear it.”
The man laughed, the sound of it as intimate as the touch of his hands at her waist. “There’s only one reward I’d accept from you, Cassie, as you well know.” He lowered his head, but she turned away and his lips brushed lightly across her cheek. She heard his deep chuckle, tantalizingly familiar, and then his fingers curled about a breast.
“Cassie, look at me.”
Cassandra turned her head slightly to bring him full within her view and a shiver licked up her spine. Her mind no longer played her memory false. His face was different, but the voice, and the kiss, they were the same.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
His chuckle, deep and resonant, was unnerving in its confidence. “Your lover, lady,” came the silky reply.
“No!” Cassandra twisted to be free. To her surprise, she was immediately lifted and set back on the seat opposite him. Cradling her son tightly, she stared at the man through frightened eyes.
“What do you see?” he asked her quietly.
“A stranger,” she whispered.
“What else?” he prompted.
“Nothing more,” Cassandra answered and lowered her gaze, wishing fervently to be back in her bedroom at Briarcliffe. Her son struggled in her arms and she thought, no, that she could not wish.
“Why do you not answer with the truth of what you know?” the man continued quietly. “I’m certain you remember.”
Cassandra shook her head slightly, not wanting to voice her beliefs, but her eyes were drawn to him once more in wonder.
He sat forward suddenly, his single sapphire eye seeking her golden-brown gaze. “You know who I am, Cassie. Admit it. Do not be deceived by appearances.”
Cassandra stared dumbly, too frightened and fascinated to look away. She did not know what to expect when he reached up and quickly switched his patch from one eye to the other, but the reality startled her to speech.
“You haven’t lost your eye!”
“You’re quick-witted, Cassie. What else do you see?” He bent forward to bring this face on a level with hers. “What is the difference?”
“It’s—why, your left eye! It’s green!” Cassandra shrank back until the horsehair cushions stopped her.
He snatched off the patch. The flickering flame of the lantern lit his features, but Cassandra saw only the reflection of sapphire flame in one eye and emerald in the other. Reaching up, he removed the wig, revealing the sable-black hair she remembered. A moment later he peeled the patch from his cheek and rubbed off the rouge and powder to display the bronzed face that she remembered against her will.
“Merlyn Ross!” Cassandra gasped. “I thought you dead.”
“Did you cry for me, Cassie?” Merlyn asked sweetly as his gaze lowered to her bosom against which her babe lay.
Cassandra shook her head. “It’s not possible. The marquess confirmed that you were hanged.”
Merlyn smiled as if at a simple child. “I have friends, though I had thought myself abandoned the night we met. A few coins here, a few coins there, what’s one body more or less to a gaoler? I was only one of four men to hang that morning. I must assume they substituted some other wretch for me.” His gaze shifted from her to the baby. “Never in my life have I been more grateful for the vagaries of life.”
Cassandra pulled her son protectively close. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Do you not?” Merlyn’s gaze went meaningfully from her to the child once more. “Did you call him Merlyn after me?”
Cassandra stared at him, aghast. “The child’s not yours!” She scrambled about in her mind frantically for some explanation that would put him off, but the lie great enough to serve would not come. The best she could manage was a weak bluff. “You’d best let us down. ‘Tis miles back to Briarcliffe. You’d be far and away before I returned.”
It was only when silence stretched out interminably that she wondered if he might throw open the coach door and fling mother and child out. “Oh, say something!” she cried finally, the harshness of her tone echoing in her ears.
Merlyn’s face gave no hint of his feelings, but she immediately sensed a difference in his silence and looked up to find him staring at Adam.
Adam had grown momentarily quiet, entertained, no doubt, by the loud voices about him. But now he began sucking noisily on his fist between hungry fretting.
“Feed your son, Cassie,” came his calm reply.
“What?” she asked.
To her complete astonishment he leaned forward and unerringly found her breast, which he boldly squeezed. The gesture stung her pride more than any other action he might have made. “You damnable, vile, impudent oaf!” she cried. “I’m no brood sow for marketing at the fair!”
“Tsk, tsk, that’s no fit language for a lady,” Merlyn admonished through easy laughter. “Only, tell me. Why are you playing wet nurse to the child? Ladies do not usually suckle their own.”
Caught between outrage and mortification, Cassandra could not find her voice. He had dared to touch her intimately, without the least hesitation. For the second time in her life she knew the melting fear of physical vulnerability. Then she remembered the only weapon she had. “I am the Marchioness of Briarcliffe. You’d do well to keep that in mind.”
Merlyn burst into laughter. “Lord love us, you must do better than that.”
“It’s true,” Cassandra protested. Greatly daring, she added, “If you really knew Nicholas Briarcliffe, you’d know what I say is true.”
Merlyn sobered on the moment. “What I know, my sweet liar, is that the grandson the Marquess of Briarcliffe plans to foist off on the beau monde is a fraud.”
Cassandra paled visibly. Seeing the effect of his words, he said conciliatingly, “Come, Cassie. You’ve every right to be angry with me, but, I swear, I did try to find you. My friends did not ask my consent in their plans. I found myself drugged and shipped to France before I could stop them. When I returned, you had left Newgate without a trace.” His gaze darkened. “ ‘Tis been hell this year without you. We’ve lost time, my love, precious time.”
“I’m no love of yours,” Cassandra cried. “Hear me. I am the wife of Nicholas Briarcliffe. He is my husband these three years.”
Merlyn’s gaze narrowed. He did not know how to prove her wrong or even why he should. But her tone made him believe that she was not glad for his return from the grave.
The pain of that realization cut deep, deeper than he thought possible. He sat back carefully, anger working in him. For nearly a year he had searched for her, combing every tavern, public hall, and bawdyhouse in London in hopes of glimpsing her great dark eyes. While she, it seemed, was scheming and intriguing with one of the most notorious old roués in England.
His memories of her could not be reconciled with this new possibility of a calculating woman, but, he remin
ded himself, he had viewed her through three-quarters of a bottle of brandy and the narrow scope of a noose. Virgin or not, she had had no protector, no future beyond selling herself. His eyes strayed to the babe once more, and a new thought struck him. He’d made her pregnant; perhaps she had done what she did because she needed money to care for the child.
“You’ve offered me money to escort you to London. How will you pay me?”
“Nicholas will see to it,” Cassandra said confidently.
Merlyn shook his head. “That won’t do. London’s a three- or four-day journey. The marquess will soon learn you are gone. We cannot afford to spend our nights in roadhouses, but we must eat. How will you pay for it?”
Cassandra gnawed the corner of her lower lip and then she remembered. One hand flew up to one ear, but the diamond drop was gone. So, too, was the other. Only then did she realize the cold weight of the Briarcliffe choker was no longer clasped about her throat. “I must have dropped them on the grounds,” she murmured to herself.
At her stricken expression Merlyn’s lips twisted in mockery. “My lady should take greater care with her jewels. The night often conceals a thief.” With practiced ease he stuck two long fingers into his waistcoat and withdrew her diamond choker. “Is this what you’re looking for?”
Cassandra stared at him in amazement. “But how—? You stole them!” she accused.
“Of course. What else would you expect from a thief?” Merlyn returned in good humor.
“Thief? But you never touched …” Cassandra faltered. It came to her quickly, the light touches of his fingers when they stood in her bedroom and, later, when he’d kissed her and she’d been pressed tightly against him. Still, it did not seem possible that he could remove the jewels without her knowing it. “Who are you?” she demanded.
Merlyn’s mouth widened into a grin. “I’m the Comte de Valure, just as you saw. To be honest, it’s one of my better disguises. I’m a thief by trade. A jewel thief.”
Cassandra considered this, less appalled than she expected to be. “That’s why you were in Newgate?”
