A Lady by Midnight (7 page)

In the
direction
of the sea. Not all the way there.

From the loud squelch that followed, the thing couldn’t have flown more than fifty feet before smashing to pulp on the rocks.

“Corporal Thorne?”

“Miss Taylor.” She’d appeared out of nowhere while he was distracted, Badger nosing at her heels.

“I’ve a matter to discuss with you. Can we have a private word?”

He led her through the remains of a crumbled archway and around a low sandstone wall. It was a place apart, but not enclosed. The armory was no place for her, and he damned well couldn’t take her into his quarters alone.

If he got her anywhere near a bed . . . this temporary engagement could all too easily become permanent.

God, just look at her this morning. The sunlight gave her hair hints of cinnamon and threw gold sparks in her eyes. The exertion of a steep climb up the bluffs showed her slight figure to its best advantage. And the heart-shaped mark at her temple . . . it was the worst and best of everything. It made him painfully aware she wasn’t some unearthly apparition, but a flesh-and-blood woman who’d warm in his embrace.

None of this was for him, he reminded himself. Not the careful curl of her hair, nor the spotless new gloves that gave her hands the look of bleached starfish. She wore a pale blue frock that seemed more froth than muslin. A border of delicate ivory lace trimmed the low, squared neckline. He shouldn’t be noticing that lace. Much less staring at it.

He wrenched his gaze up to her face. “What’s wrong? What do you need?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Except that I’m not accustomed to having a puppy for a roommate.”

“Ready to give him back, then?”

“Not a chance. I adore him.” She bent to give the dog a brisk rub. “But how do I keep him from chewing things?”

“You don’t. It’s what he’s born to do—chase down small animals and rip them apart.”

“My. What a little savage.”

He pulled a handful of rabbit hide twists from his pocket. He tossed one to the dog, then offered the rest to her. “Give him these, one at a time. They should last a few days, at least.”

“Can I buy more at the shop when these are gone?”

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t purchase them.”

He expected her to give the knotted bits of scraped hide a faintly disgusted look, now that she knew just where they’d originated. Instead, she regarded him with the same soft, liquid eyes she used on the pup.

“You had all those prepared? She must have been right. You do value this dog.”

“What? Who must be right?”

She pocketed the extra rabbit hide scraps. “Sally Bright told me—”

“Sally Bright says a lot of things.”

“—that you had a puppy on order from a breeder. Bred from some kind of superior hunting stock. She said the pups come very dear. Corporal Thorne, if Badger means something to you, I’ll give him back. I just need to know he’ll be cared for.”

Not this again.
“The dog is mine. That’s all I should need to say.”

“What’s so horrible about admitting a fondness for the creature? I’m a music tutor, as you well know, and music is just another language. Unfamiliar phrases come easier with practice. Say it with me now, slowly: ‘I care about the dog.’ ”

He didn’t say a thing.

“That’s a very intimidating scowl,” she teased. “Do you practice that look in the mirror? I’ll bet you do. I’ll bet you glare into the looking glass until it shatters.”

“Then be a clever girl and turn away.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t. I came up here to talk privately because we need to make our stories straight. The whole village has heard of our betrothal already. Everyone’s asking me how we came to be engaged, and I don’t know what to tell them. Aren’t the men asking you the same? What have you said?”

He shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Of course. How could I forget? No one expects you to talk. You’re Corporal Taciturn. But it’s different with la—”

Shouts from the other side of the wall interrupted. “Ready, men! Three, two . . .”

Thunk. Creak. Whoosh.

Then, a few seconds later,
splat.

“More sand in the counterweight,” Sir Lewis shouted to the men. “We almost have it.”

“It’s different with ladies,” Miss Taylor said, continuing where she’d left off. “You don’t understand. When a girl gets engaged, they want to know everything. Every glance, every touch, every whispered word. I can’t abide lying to them, so I’d prefer we hold to the truth. We became engaged yesterday. Our first kiss was on the way home from Hastings. We’ve—”

He held up a hand, halting her mid-sentence. “Wait. You’re telling people about the kiss?”

She blushed. “I haven’t really, not yet. But I think I must. They’re skeptical as it is. No one believes we’ve been courting. Because we haven’t been.” Her gaze dropped to the turf. “Oh, this is miserable. I should have never agreed to the idea.”

“If it’s causing you that much anguish, release me from the engagement.”

Her eyes widened. “I couldn’t do that so fast. I would look fickle, even mercenary. What kind of woman would engage herself to a man one evening, then throw him over the very next day just because her circumstances changed?”

“A great many women would do that.”

“Well, I’m not one of them.”

Thorne knew very well she wasn’t.

“The Gramercys might be my relations,” she went on. “I want them to like me—and to
know
me—for who I truly am. I’m not the kind of woman to marry for convenience. Unless we lie a little bit, I’ll feel dishonest.”

Thorne frowned. Was she asking him to behave like an interested suitor? He’d made concealing his attraction to her such a habit, he wasn’t sure he knew how to do the reverse.

He opened his mouth to speak, but from beyond the wall came another shout: “Ready!”

Another count: “Three, two . . .”

Another shot from the trebuchet. This time, after several seconds of silence, he heard a distant, watery splash.

“Better,” Sir Lewis called. “The force is right, but the aim is off. I need to adjust the mechanism.”

“Our stories,” Thorne said, once the men had gone quiet again. “Let’s make them matching, as you say.”

“First, what are our plans after the wedding? Supposedly you’re going to America.”

“I am going to America. So supposedly you’re coming with me.”

“Are we headed for New York? Boston?”

“Philadelphia, but only to gather supplies. I’ve a plan to claim some land in Indiana Territory.”

“Indiana Territory?” She scrunched up her face. “
Indiana
. That sounds very . . . primitive.”

Thorne shifted his weight. Through the lacy castle ruins, he could see the glistening, aquamarine cove and the expansive Channel beyond. Clearly the prospect of wide-open spaces didn’t appeal to her the way it called to him. He’d been planning this for some time now—his own tract of land. He’d been clinging to the idea so long, he could feel the grit under his fingernails. There’d be rich soil to till, game to hunt and trap. Ample timber for the felling.

True freedom, and the chance to make his own life.

“Where would we live?” she asked.

“I’d build a house,” he said.

“How would I continue with my music? I couldn’t give it up. Not plausibly. This is me we’re talking about. Everyone knows I’d never have agreed to marry you—or anyone—unless music was part of the bargain.”

“I’ll see that you have a pianoforte.” He had no idea how one would be transported to the middle of the woodlands, but the logistics hardly signified.

“And pupils?”

He gestured impatiently with one hand. “There’d be children, eventually.”

“I’ve tutored the daughters of dukes and lords. And now I’d be teaching frontier neighbor children?”

“No, I meant ours. Our children.”

Her eyebrows soared. A rather long time passed before she said, “Oh.”

He made no apology for the insinuation. “This is me we’re talking about. Everyone knows I wouldn’t offer marriage to you—or anyone—unless bedding were part of the bargain.”

Her cheeks colored. Thorne had a vivid, sudden vision of the two of them in a rough-hewn log cabin, tucked between a straw-tick mattress and a quilted counterpane. Nothing but heat and musk between their bodies. He’d curl his strength around her softness, keeping out the cold and howling wolves. The scent of her hair would lull him to sleep.

That picture looked damn near paradise to him—which meant it was unattainable. And he could imagine she wouldn’t see the charms.

“What about love?” she asked.

He jerked his head, surprised. “What about it?”

“Do you mean to love me? What about all these children you mean for us to create? Am I to believe you’ll laugh and play with them, be open with them, let them into that stony thing you call a heart?”

He stared at her. If he thought he could ever give her those things, he would have offered to do so. Months ago.

He said, “No one needs to believe love’s involved.”

“Of course they do. Because I would need to believe it.”

“Miss Taylor . . .”

“This will never work.” She rubbed her brow with one hand. “No one will credit that I’ve agreed to leave my friends, my work, my home, and my country behind. And for what? To cross the ocean and take up residence in a remote wilderness cabin with a man who can’t fathom the meaning of love? In
Indiana
?”

He took her by the shoulders, forcing her to face him. “We’re ill suited. I know that. I could never make you happy. I know that, too. I’m so far beneath you, the best I could ever offer would be a paltry fraction of what you deserve. I’m aware of all of this, Miss Taylor. You don’t have to remind me.”

Regret softened her eyes. “I’m sorry. So sorry. I shouldn’t have said—”

“Save the apologies. You spoke the truth. I was only agreeing.”

“No, no. I can’t stand for you to believe that I’d . . .” She reached for him.

Holy God. She reached for him, and before he could duck or step back or fall on his sword to prevent it, her gloved hand was on his cheek. Her palm flattened there, warm and satiny. Sensation jolted through his body.

When she spoke, her voice was quiet, but strong. “You’re not beneath me. I’d never think that.”

Yes, you are beneath her,
he reminded himself, bracing against the forbidden bliss coursing through his veins.
And don’t dare imagine you’ll ever be atop her. Or curled behind her. Or buried deep inside her while she—

Bloody hell. The fact that he could even think such a thing. He was crude, disgusting. So undeserving of even this slight caress. Her gesture was made out of guilt, offered in apology. If he took advantage, he would be a devil.

He knew all this.

But he flexed his arms anyway, drawing her close.

“You’re worried you’ve hurt my feelings,” he murmured.

She nodded, just a little.

“I don’t have those.”

“I forgot.”

Amazing. He marveled at her foolishness. After all he’d said to her, she would worry about
him
? Within this small, slight woman lived so much untapped affection, she couldn’t help but squander it on music pupils and mongrel dogs and undeserving brutes. What was it like, he wondered, to live with that bright, glowing star in her chest? How did she survive it?

If he kissed her deeply enough and held her tight—would some of its warmth transfer to him?

“Wait,” came a call, echoing vaguely in the distance. “Hold still! Not yet!”

Perhaps the voice belonged to his conscience. He couldn’t bring himself to pay it any mind. All he knew was her touch and her caring and the raw, trembling force of his own need.

He drew her closer still. Her eyes went wide. Larger and more lovely than he’d ever seen them before. A whole world of possibility was opening in those dark pupils.

And then . . . Her gaze drifted up and a little to the side. Her lips fell apart in wonder.

A strange shadow appeared on her face.

A shadow that was round, and growing larger by the instant. As though some projectile were rapidly approaching from above.

Jesus, no.

Thorne had been here before, many times. Battle, sieges, skirmishes. Thought ceased, and instinct took over. His grip tightened on her shoulders. His already thundering heart pumped faster, powering strength to his limbs.

The word “Down!” tore from his throat.

He threw himself forward, wrapping her body in his arms and flattening her to the ground—

Just as the explosion hit.

Chapter Eight

I
t took Kate several seconds to register what had happened.

One moment she’d been staring, incredulous, as an object plummeted toward her from the sky. She’d stood transfixed by the sheer absurdity of it. This strange, roundish thing silhouetted against the sun, growing larger and closer . . . and greener.

The next thing she knew, she was on the ground. Corporal Thorne was on top of her. And they were both covered in wet, sticky melon pulp. Shards of rind littered the ground nearby. A pungent sweetness filled her heightened senses. Evidently, Sir Lewis’s adjustments to the trebuchet had gone awry.

Really, there was nothing else for it. She had to laugh. Softly at first, but soon her whole body shook with mirth.

Thorne didn’t share her amusement. He didn’t rise or roll to the side. He kept her in his arms, covering her with his body. His muscles had gone rigid, everywhere. When she sought his gaze, she found his blue eyes searching and unfocused. His nostrils were flared and his breaths were harshly won.

“Thorne? Are you all right?”

He didn’t answer. She didn’t think he
could
answer.

He wasn’t there.

It was the only way she could think to describe it. His body lay atop her, heavy as sacks of grain. She knew he was alive, from the way his heartbeat slammed against hers. But mentally, he wasn’t there. He was somewhere else. On some scorched, smoking battlefield, she imagined, where round objects falling from the sky had a great deal more destructive force than the average overripe melon.

She touched his face, just lightly. “Thorne? It’s all right. It was only a melon. I’m not hurt. Are you?”

His arms flexed, squeezing her until she winced with pain.

He forced a strange growl through his clenched teeth. The sound was inhuman. Each hair on her arms stood tall, as if to wave a tiny flag of surrender, and her pulse drummed in her ears. She was truly afraid now. For him, and for herself. She lay small and defenseless beneath him. If he’d mistaken her for the enemy on his phantom battlefield, he could do her true harm.

She caressed his face with trembling fingers, reaching to sweep the hair back from his brow. Between the velvet of his thick, soft hair and the wetness of the melon pulp, it felt like stroking a newborn foal. Tenderness swelled in her heart.

“All’s well. We’re unharmed. This is Rycliff Castle. Spindle Cove.” Kate tried to keep her voice low and steady, aiming to soothe them both. “You’re home. And it’s only me. Miss Taylor. Kate. I’m the music tutor, remember? I’m your . . . I’m a friend.”

His jaw tensed. And not in a friendly way.

She’d never been more aware of the brute power contained in a man’s body. If he wished, he could snap her in two. Though perhaps not very cleanly—which was all the more reason to avoid the experience, she thought. Somehow, she needed to remind him of his humanity. The gentleness these same bones and tendons and muscles could produce.

“I’m Miss Taylor,” she repeated. “Yesterday, you came to my rescue in Hastings. You brought me home on your horse. We stopped to take bread, and—and you kissed me. In a field of heather, just at sunset. I’ve tried so hard to forget it, but I’ve thought of little else since. Can you recall it?”

She brushed a thumb across his lips.

His mouth softened a little and a shaky exhalation rushed over her fingertips. She thought she glimpsed a spark of awareness returning to his eyes.

“Yes,” she said, encouraging him. “You’re well. We’re both safe. It’s only me.”

A shudder racked his body. He blinked hard, and his gaze began to focus on her face.

From his throat came a raspy, “Katie?”

She half sobbed with relief. “Yes. Yes, it’s me.”

He stared blankly at the melon pulp splattering her shoulder. “You’re hurt.”

“No. No, I’m fine. It’s not blood. The militiamen were adjusting Sir Lewis’s trebuchet, and there was a mishap. You took a melon for me.” She smiled, even though her lips trembled.

He trembled, too. All over.

He wasn’t so far away anymore—but he wasn’t quite home yet, either.

She raked her fingers through his hair, desperate to bridge that last divide. Perhaps she could have wriggled free of his grip now. But she couldn’t leave him wandering in that shadow world, with bombs and blood and whatever other unimaginable horrors it held.

“It’s safe now,” she whispered. “It’s safe to come back. I’m here.” She stretched her neck and pressed a light kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I’m here.”

She kissed his mouth again. Then again.

Each time their lips met, his mouth warmed a degree. She prayed his heart was warming back to life, too.

“Please,” she murmured. “Come back to me.”

And he did. Oh, he did.

The change in him was swift, abrupt. And it meant a complete inversion of her world.

Once again Kate found herself breathless, scarcely understanding what had happened. Last she’d known, she’d been pressing chaste kisses to his lips.

Now his tongue was in her mouth, and hers seemed to be partly in his. Her fingers were tangled in the sticky mess of his hair.

They were fused together. One creature. And all she could think was . . .

Sweet. He’s so sweet.

The sugar-musky tang of melon was everywhere. She kissed him with abandon, thirsty for more of it—and just so happy to know he was here again, and not worlds away. She still sensed all that raw, frightening power coiled in his body. Only now it wasn’t marshaled to the task of survival, but another instinctive, basic drive.

Desire.

“Katie,” he moaned again, pulling her closer still. Her breasts flattened beneath his broad chest. As he kissed her deeply, his muscled firmness rubbed and chafed against her nipples. The teasing sensation was unbearably exquisite. It drove her wild in her skin, made her forget everything.

His leg snaked between hers, pressing her thighs apart. When he thrust his tongue deep into her mouth, his hips rocked against hers, setting off a cascade of unprecedented pleasure. She moaned, mindlessly craving more.

Then he stopped abruptly, gasping for breath. Raised his head. Swore.

And then Kate realized what she couldn’t have noticed, in her single-minded determination to bring him back from shadow and hold him skin close.

Everyone was watching them. Sir Lewis Finch. The entirety of the Spindle Cove militia. Oh, heavens . . . even the vicar. They’d all come running to track the melon’s trajectory. And they’d come upon her and Thorne, tangled on the ground. Kissing like lovers.

Thorne rolled to the side, blocking her from their view. She tried her best to evaporate into the air. Meanwhile, he gruffly scolded the men for the mishap and ordered them back to work.

When they were gone, Badger came out of hiding and attacked Kate with puppyish vigor, licking the melon juice from her wrist and cheek.

Thorne stood and paced the small area. “Damn it.” His hands were still faintly trembling. He balled them in fists. “Are you well? I didn’t hurt you?”

“No.”

“You’re certain? I want to know the truth. If I hurt you in
any
way, I’d . . .” He didn’t complete the statement.

“I’m unharmed. I promise. But how are you?”

He kept pacing, dismissing her question with a small flick of his hand. As if his own well-being were completely irrelevant.

“Has . . .
that
ever happened before?” she asked.

“I’m not mad,” he said. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Of course not. Of course not. It was an absurd accident. I mean, what are the chances? A melon, of all things. A soldier is trained to react to bombs, grenades, cannon fire. No one’s prepared for a
melon.
I understand completely.”

He drew to a halt. He wouldn’t look at her.

She closed her eyes, frustrated with herself. “That was a thoughtless thing for me to say. I don’t understand at all. I can’t possibly imagine what it is to go to war.” She approached and laid a tentative touch to his sleeve. “But if you’d ever want to tell someone, Thorne, I am a good listener.”

His cold blue eyes held hers for a long moment, as though he were considering. “I’d never burden you with that.”

“It might as well be me. I am your betrothed, for the time being.”

“Still?”

She nodded. There was no denying that something between them had changed. They’d survived a battle together—even if it had been an imaginary siege. The fearful pounding of her heart had been very real, and the same was true of the cold sweat on his brow.

She had long been accustomed to thinking of Thorne as an enemy, but after that incident . . .

They were on the same side.

The two of them, against the melons of the world.

Kate smiled. With her fingertips, she flicked a seed from his sleeve. “You have to admit, this solves one problem. They’ll all believe the engagement now.”

“That’s one problem solved, perhaps. But several more created.”

She gathered his meaning. Her pristine reputation was now spattered in melon pulp. Unless she were proved to be a Gramercy and offered a living outside Spindle Cove—it would be nearly impossible for Kate to call this betrothal off.

K
ate declined Thorne’s offer of an escort home and hurried back to the rooming house. By the time she arrived at the back entrance, the late morning sun had dried the moisture from her sticky frock. She took the back stairs two at a time, ducking into her room to wash and change.

Exhausted from the morning’s excitement, Badger made a nest of her discarded gown and curled up to sleep.

When Kate had made herself presentable, she went downstairs and found the Gramercys assembled in the parlor. As she entered the room, she stopped dead in the doorway.

Oh, Lord.

The painting. It was still there, on the mantelpiece. Half draped, at least, to conceal all the flesh. She hoped no one else had taken notice of it. She would take it up to her room later.

“Why, Miss Taylor!” Lark looked up from a book. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Lord Drewe, being a conscientious gentleman, rose to his feet and bowed. “We weren’t expecting you yet. We thought you’d be occupied with music lessons, over at the Bull and Blossom.”

“Not just now. I thought I’d come and . . . sit with you, if you don’t mind.”

“Don’t be silly.” Aunt Marmoset patted an empty section of divan. “We’re in this village for you, dear. We don’t mind.”

“But please don’t let me interrupt,” Kate said. “Just be as you are, and go on as you were.”

From her seat at the escritoire, Harry laughed. She set her quill aside and sprinkled a letter with blotting powder. “We’re hardly busy. Lark’s reading quietly. Aunt Marmoset’s aging quietly. I’ve just finished venting my spleen with a scathing letter to Ames. As for Evan—” She swept a hand toward her brother, who’d taken a seat by the fire. “Evan’s sitting with his precious agricultural newspapers and trying to pretend he’s not a tightly wound ball of seething passions.”

“What?” Evan lowered his newspaper and regarded his sister over it. “I do not seethe.”

“Of course you seethe. You seethe the way other men drink brandy. A little bit daily as a matter of habit, and more than’s good for you when you think no one’s looking.”

With a bored sigh, Lord Drewe turned his gaze to Kate. “Do I have the appearance of a man who seethes?”

“Not at all,” Kate answered, studying his calm expression and unperturbed green eyes. “You look the picture of equanimity.”

“There, Harriet. Satisfied?” He raised his newspaper again.

“Don’t let appearances fool you, Miss Taylor,” Lark whispered. “My brother only looks even-tempered. He has fought no fewer than five duels in his life.”

“Five duels?”

“Oh, yes.” Lark’s eyes brightened. She counted them down her fingers. “Let’s see. There was the one for Calista. Before that, three for Harry—”

Kate looked to Harry, who was dressed today in the same divided skirt and tailored waistcoat. The outfit was something like a riding habit, only . . . there were no horses about.

“My goodness, Lady Harriet. Three?”

Harry shrugged as she folded and sealed her letter. “My season was eventful.”

“And one for Claire,” Lark finished, reaching her little finger.

“Claire?” Kate asked. “Who is Claire?”

Aunt Marmoset lifted her brows. “We don’t talk about Claire.”

“To the contrary,” Lord Drewe said from behind his paper. “You all talk about Claire a great deal. I refuse to join the discussion.”

“Because you prefer seething,” said Harry.

“Because it’s not kind to speak ill of the dead.” The tone of his voice told everyone the conversation was finished. A snap of newspaper served as punctuation.

The ensuing silence was awkward.

“Oh, dear,” said Lark. “I was hoping to avoid it. But Harry, I think you had better acquaint Miss Taylor with the truth.”

The truth?

“What is the truth?” Kate asked. Her heart pounded in her chest. Perhaps Thorne was right, and they’d been hiding something from her.

Harry put away all her ink and paper. “The truth is . . . as aristocratic families go, we Gramercys aren’t what you might call—”

“Civilized,” Aunt Marmoset suggested.

“Typical,” Harry finished. “It goes back to our childhood, I think. We spent the entirety of it up North, at Rook’s Fell. Enormous old place, more cobweb than mortar in its walls. Our father suffered with a very prolonged, debilitating illness, and our mother was devoted to his care. The servants couldn’t make us mind, and no thought was ever given to school. No one expected Evan would inherit the title, of course. It was to stay in your father’s line. So we simply ran wild, like vines in a neglected garden. Until Aunt Marmoset came to mind us, and even then it was too late for us older ones. Except for dear, sweet Lark there, we’ve all of us grown up twisted in some way.”

“Twisted?” Lark echoed. “Harry, you do make it sound so perverse.”

“If Kate is to associate with us, she should know. The plain fact of it is, we are not really ‘good society.’ But we are obscenely rich, highly ranked, and so utterly fascinating the
ton
cannot look away.”