by Karen Ranney
Was this what she had wanted, then? One last time to lie in his arms, to feel the strength and the need and the passion he gave her so effortlessly? A memory to last a lifetime. A recollection of bliss to store in an enameled jar and extract on those cold, lonely nights when everything around her was mellow and warm except for the core of her, except for her heart. Then her heart would clench tight in warmth, in recollection. She would extract from her memory jar the feel of his lips on her, the delicate invasion of his tongue, the strength of his hands, the feel of his fingertips as they skated across her skin, eliciting trembles as they passed.
The clothing she had donned only minutes ago was divested quickly. Her hands, or his—it did not matter who—opened laces and slipped buttons from their loops. He helped her with one of her new slippers, sliding it from her foot, his palm cupping her heel in a tender caress.
She had a vague impression of his leading her to the great state bed, but perhaps he’d lifted her to it instead. Above her head a crest was embroidered; yards and yards of embroidered silk was draped from its large posts. It was sumptuous and ridiculously elegant, sublimely decadent, and she could have been resting on straw for all she cared. His dressing gown was open; the expanse of his chest was graced with shadows. She reached out to touch him, but he stayed her hands, standing beside the bed watching her.
“You are a painting,” he whispered, his voice filled with warmth. Perhaps in this memory jar, she would label it tenderness, perhaps she would pretend that much.
He bent to his knees beside the bed, lowered his forehead against the side of the mattress, then reached out and cupped her right breast, the skin of his palm slightly rough and creating a skittering sensation where it touched. It was as if they were new lovers, as if they had never spent hours exploring each other, as if he had not kissed and stroked and trailed a fingertip down each swell and curve of her body.
She felt like a feast of sensation. There, a feather brush of tenderness. Here, a teasing pluck upon her skin. A soft, cajoling bite, the smooth enamel of teeth, a shudder of nerves racing to keep up with the pounding of a heart, a shiver of need.
He lowered himself into her, plunging into her heat with one stroke, as if he reminded her of the sheer physicality of mating, not the mentality of it. He did not simply arouse her, he promised satiation.
“Please.” Into the silence she spoke again, the single word lifting his head and causing him to spear her with a glance. It was there in her eyes, there in the grazing of her fingers against his lips, his chin. The mate for his ancient man. The fertility goddess. The victim, staked out and willing.
She surrendered to an emotion she could not name.
He had touched her before, but not like this, not with every inch of his skin being licked by every inch of hers. They were two cats in the morning light, probably making noises like mating animals, but she was insensible to it. He teased her by withdrawing, then entering her with a thrust, no preliminary coaxing, no soft sweet words, only hunger easing the way. He undulated over her; she stretched, feline, beneath him. He nipped at her chin, her shoulder, her tight budded nipples. She clawed at his shoulders, his back, his thighs. Both of his hands held her tight at the waist; she lunged upward with his downward movement. She was tight and hot and wet. He was hard and hot and strong.
He looked fierce and feral and almost animal above her. Was that why her heart beat so loudly and the feelings he aroused in her were so frightening and yet so blessed? It was hunger and desperation so fierce she arched against him in demand.
Such need lasts a lifetime in the mind, but only moments passed before she began to whimper. The sound was an aphrodisiac in the morning, a call to completion, a herald as old as the dawn that streamed into the room.
She bit her bottom lip, he coaxed it free with his fingers, covered it with his own mouth, swallowed the sound of her whimpers as she fell mindless into blackness. Moments later, seconds later, a hundred years later, she cradled him as he did the same.
“Is this all, ma’am?”
“Yes, thank you, Peter,” Bernie replied.
He turned half-in and half-out of the doorway, watched her with hooded eyes. “You’re really goin’, then?”
She straightened from her inspection of the empty armoire, certain that this time she had not left anything behind. She had a habit of doing that, as a mouse might mark its territory, a trinket here, a reticule there, flotsam and jetsam of her life strewn over three continents.
“I’ve done what I’ve set out to do, Peter. Why should I remain?”
“I’ll not beg, Bernie.”
What was there about men that made them so appealing? Was it that they sometimes reminded grown women of their little boys, what with their petulant air and their lower lip all hanging out in brooding silence? And yet Peter did not appear to be a child this moment, not with his muscles bunched up under the weight of her trunk, and his glower.
“You’re a good man, Peter. I’m sure there is a woman closer to your own age who would please you as well.” Still, there was something to be said for pride, was there not? And the sweet blush of it warmed her face. She would miss him, not only for those nights he’d enlivened her stay at Sanderhurst, but for the surprising good humor of him, for his insightful glimpses into human nature, the laughter they’d shared.
Never mind that. He wasn’t for her. He was young and strong and handsome. She was older, slightly worn, and looking for something she’d yet to define.
“I was a seaman afore I came to Sanderhurst, Bernie. I’ve seen the world and most that’s in it. I’m not much more than five years younger than you, but I’m willin’ to bet that I’ve the experience to offset it right enough.”
“I’m not one to stay in one place, Peter. Remaining at Sanderhurst would render me as batty as Cecily Moresham.”
“I’ve not asked it of you.”
“And the accommodations on even the most luxurious St. John ship are less than commodious, I can assure you.”
She ducked her head into the empty armoire once more, less to assure herself she’d left nothing behind than to hide her flaming cheeks. And, perhaps, dampen the rising excitement she felt?
“Is it more than a hammock between decks, Bernie?”
“The voyage to China is very long, Peter, taking months.” She emerged from the armoire, the gleam in her eye somewhat subdued, but not as expressionless as she would have wished.
“You look less a matron now, Bernie, or a countess, than a young woman about to set upon a great adventure. Aye, it’s a picture that gives my heart a tug.”
“It’s been a lovely time, Peter. Thank you.” There, was that strong and resolved enough? She wasn’t a bloody saint, after all.
“I remember it being a boring voyage, Bernie. One in which I’d longed for diversion myself.”
“Perhaps it would be nice to have the company of an experienced sailor.”
“I was a bosun on my last voyage.” He lowered the trunk and advanced on her.
“A credible rank.”
“Less than being a St. John, Bernie, a thought you need to give some time to.”
“As is my age, Peter.”
He grinned then, an utterly lovely gesture that showed his white teeth and tanned skin. “Then, Countess, shall we consider ourselves travelin’ companions? You with your great advanced age, and me with my limited prospects?”
“I cannot help but think you’ve got the lesser of this bargain, Peter. Are you very sure?”
He was nearly upon her. Then he reached out and quite easily lifted her to her toes, bent his head and kissed her soundly, leaving no doubt in her mind that he was quite, quite sure.
“It’s a damn long voyage to China, Bernie, my love. I’ll make the most of it. By the time we’re in Xiamen, we’ll see what we think of this bargain of ours.”
It was the experience of lying close to a naked male that woke Mary Kate an hour later. The touch of another body, especially one as large and warm as th
is particular body, was an experience she relished.
He slept beside her, turned to his side, a hand outstretched as if to beseech her to stay. For long moments she studied him in the light of the morning sun.
He had a habit of crossing his middle fingers together, even in sleep. She wondered where that little gesture had originated. A childish wish, forever to be left ungranted? His eyelids danced in his dreams; every few breaths he made a startling sound like a gust of air. Not quite a snore, but nearly so. He slept heavily, as if he had not slept well in the last few days and was making up for such a lack.
Mary Kate felt coward enough to bless this fact, as she stood and silently began dressing. She sat upon the edge of the bed, tempting fate, it seemed, and the sleeping figure on the bed beside her. If he awakes, I will tell him good-bye. If he does not, I will go without a word.
She braided her hair, pinned it to the nape of her neck, all without benefit of a mirror. A nicety not often available for the servant class.
Still, he did not wake.
Another few moments passed, during which she simply studied him, the long, muscled length of him, half-draped by the sheet. He would grow cold, she thought, before she covered him with the thin blanket and then the outer duvet. Still he did not wake.
Finally, when it was evident that Archer St. John was deep in the arms of sleep, Mary Kate stood and looked down upon the bed. In her eyes was a tenderness born of a love unspoken. Just before she left the room, however, she broke her own resolve, returning to the bed, placing a soft and tender kiss upon Archer’s forehead. In the smallest of words, so softly spoken they could not possibly disturb him, she whispered her last and most onerous truth of all.
“I love you, Archer.”
But there was no place for her here.
Chapter 42
Mary Kate unlaced the black velvet vest and shrugged it off her shoulders, then unbuttoned the white, full-length blouse. She handed both garments to Bessie, the young girl originally hired to be the relief barmaid, but who was more comfortable helping abovestairs. She stepped out of the linen skirt and two petticoats she wore under that, smiling at the effect of her costume, as she called it. It was close enough to a tavern wench’s attire to never let her forget, and yet made of richer materials and of a finer cut so that the customers often did.
Still, the clientele of the Golden Eagle were not likely to take advantage, not with a burly ex-seamen stationed at the front doors. He was there to ensure that nothing occurred that would damage the Eagle’s reputation, or harm her. Consequently, the small establishment had a growing repute as a tavern where a fair measure of whiskey was traded for a coin, where a man could get a good meal flavored in the way of the French, and talk of politics or women or horses. A customer could work on the docks or in the government, be a soldier or a duke; as long as he knew his manners, he was welcome at the Eagle.
“I thought the Earl of Brighton was going to have a stroke, ma’am, after you called ’im a knuckle’eaded dunce.”
“He actually thinks the French will settle down into an amicable discourse with England. His words, not mine. The idiot does not see the writing on the wall. We are for war, Bessie. There is little doubt.” Mary Kate removed her stockings and placed them on the dressing table. “France will declare war on Britain any day. They have already killed their king. What does the idiot think will happen?”
“Still an’ all, I don’t think ’e liked to ’ear it from you.”
“Stupid man. Just because a woman issues an opinion does not make it wrong.”
“Bloody hell, Mary Kate, tell ’im to let me go. My ears’ll never be the same.”
Both women turned at the sound of his voice. Bessie’s eyes simply grew wide at the sight of the handsome gentleman in the doorway. Why, he nearly took up all the space, his head nearly touching the lintel. Plus, he had Michael O’Brien’s head tucked neatly under one arm, and the man’s bull-like shoulders were half-twisted in that position.
Archer only grinned.
“Yes, Mary Kate, do tell me what I’m to do with him. He seems to be of the mind to keep me from you. I tried to tell the gentleman that you and I had business, but he wouldn’t take my word for it.”
“Let him go, Archer. Uncle Michael, are you all right?”
The man assigned to be her guard at the front door shook himself free and eyed Archer St. John with a great deal of caution. Still, he edged away from him all the same. He crooked his neck as if to test whether or not his head rested on his shoulders the right way, and then sent a ferocious scowl toward the man who leaned negligently against the doorframe.
“And how, Mary Kate, does a woman professing to be without any kin in the world suddenly possess an uncle? He looks nothing like you. He’s a bull of a man and rude, to boot.”
“No, Uncle Michael,” Mary Kate said, to forestall yet another confrontation. “I’m sure the earl meant no disrespect.” She came and stood between them, placing her hands on her uncle’s chest, while sending Archer a disdainful look.
“I’ve six brothers, too, Archer. And a host of nieces and nephews. An entire family, noisy and boisterous.” Was it her imagination, or did he flinch?
She turned back to her uncle, her gaze sharp and protective all at once. “Did he hurt you, Uncle Michael?”
Archer’s laughter lit the room. “I am flattered that you think me so dangerous, my dear. Your long-lost uncle may be twice my age, but I think he could take on the King’s Guards and remain standing.”
Uncle Michael looked mollified enough to stop scowling for a moment.
“Should I take him downstairs for you, Mary Kate?”
“No, Uncle Michael. That’s all right.”
Archer entered the room nonchalantly, as if it had not been nearly a year since she’d seen him, as if every day had not been filled with memories of him. At this moment it was almost too much, the sight of his sardonic smile, the light of something blazing in his eyes, Bessie’s stupefied amazement, Uncle Michael’s glower.
“Shall we go, ma’am, or call someone?” Bessie asked, handing Mary Kate her dressing gown.
She turned and looked at Bessie and Michael over her shoulder. “It’s all right, truly it is. I’ll be fine.”
After they left the room, Mary Kate turned back to Archer St. John. In those long seconds she wished for some sort of nonchalance with which to greet him, a detachment with which she could treat his sudden appearance. Such was not an easy thing to accomplish, even less so when she studied him. He was the same, and yet not. There were few physical changes; he was as tall as ever, as broad as a tree trunk, as sartorially perfect. But there were tips of silver upon his black hair, and a few more wrinkles about his eyes. It was as if he had not slept since she’d left him at Sanderhurst, adrift in dreams. How utterly tired he looked.
How long had she waited for him? A thousand years? How many times had she told herself not to think such forbidden thoughts? Earls do not chase servant girls.
And yet he was here now.
“How did you find him?”
“You’ll say it didn’t happen. That there is no such thing as fate, or coincidence. He came in for a dram of whiskey, Archer. I served him myself.” And ended up on his lap, crying, while the whole of the tavern looked to want to tear him limb from limb for making her cry. Michael had told her of the others, of the web of family stretching all over England. Twice they’d met all together, and were planning on another meeting in the spring.
“I would not have thought you gone back to servitude. It seemed I was mistaken, however. It would have made my search a little faster, if not easier.”
“You looked for me, then?”
“My dear Mary Kate, I scoured the earth for you. Did you not know?” A small smile played over his lips.
She shook her head.
“I sent one of my ships for Bernie, thinking you were with her. Imagine my surprise when, ten months later, Robert Dunley returns, with the tale that my mother is completely
smitten with Peter the footman, has made him some sort of tea merchant in China. Did you know they’d married?”
At the shake of her head, he walked closer, still smiling, a gesture of utter benevolence. Why, then, did she feel that he leashed his emotions, kept his anger tightly reined?
“She sent me a four-foot carving of a fertility goddess, accompanied by a scathing letter.”
“She did?”
“She did. She lectured me on the St. John habit of autocracy, on the quickness of life, on the fact that I was an idiot to have banished any chance of happiness from my hermitage.”
“That sounds a great deal like Bernie.” She twisted her hands in front of her.
“Yet she did not divulge where you were.”
“She did not?”
“No, she did not.” Another small smile.
He walked to the side of the room where her bed lay, a small, narrow mattress covered with a plain, soft blanket. “I awakened to find you gone, Mary Kate, felt as bereft as a child. I inquired of Jonathan what had become of you, and he did not know. Not one servant knew of your ultimate destination. I visited your brother, of all people, Mary Kate. Not a pleasant sort. He is the one for whom the word hermit was crafted. Dislikes me intensely, I believe, which is no great loss, since I found myself sharing the sentiment. But you were not with him, either.”
He walked to the window, stared full face into the pane of glass, as if he could see the view from it. Only seconds later did she realize that the darkness reflected the interior of the room and he watched her, instead.
“It took ten months to hear from Bernie. Ten months in which to wonder and hope and pray. Do you know what I thought, Mary Kate?”
He turned and watched her. At the shake of her head, he smiled.
“I thought you dead, like Alice. That madness had traveled from the very grave and kept you prisoner.”
“Oh, Archer.” She had never thought he would think that.
“No note, Mary Kate? No explanation? Was I that severe a jailer?”
