A Lady’s Secret (20 page)

“And every other time you’ve been with a woman, I assume.”

“As I said, there are ways to avoid problems. Do you really want to talk about this?”

“Yes,” she said fiercely to the dark ceiling. “Why did you not use these ways?”

The silence lasted so long that she might imagine he’d left if she didn’t know he was there, just out of reach.

“I lost control,” he said at last.

“Isn’t that the point?”

“Only by intent. When I said ‘hell,’ it was also a lapse of control. Unpardonable, but I do ask your pardon.”

Instant forgiveness rose to her lips, but she said, “If you felt that way, it’s better I know.”

“Petra…” He sighed it. “It’s not your fault. It’s nothing to do with you. No, that’s nonsense.” He stirred, and when he spoke again, she knew he’d turned to her. “You are a very beautiful, very desirable woman, but I chose to be your protector, almost your guardian. What I did, it was not appropriate.”

“Appropriate,” she echoed, unable to hold back a touch of wry humor. “No one would think it appropriate, but I did as much as you.”

He didn’t reply.

“I don’t expect you to marry me. I mean that.”

“I don’t expect me to abandon you if you’re with child.”

“It will be
my
choice.”

“We’ll see.”

She rolled to face him, to look into half-seen eyes. “I haven’t come so far and striven so hard to be commanded and imprisoned here.”

“Marriage isn’t usually considered a prison.”

“It was for my mother.”

“I am hardly a man like your father. The Italian one.”

“I don’t know what sort of man you are. I felt sure at least that you were a libertine, but here you are preaching a sermon at me.”

“I have my code.”

“As do I.” She turned over again. “Good night.”

“Petra, please, allow me to be your protector until you’re safe. I will ask no more than that.”

She couldn’t reply, because she would make no false promise.

She thought that was the end of it, even though she couldn’t imagine sleeping, but then he said, “Will you lie with me?”

She couldn’t believe it. “Of course not.”

“I mean, together. This bed dips so much that gravity will pull us together, anyway, if we sleep, but I’d like to hold you. In the hope it might comfort us both, but also to show you can trust me.”

“Said the lion, opening its jaws,” she muttered. But the pull of gravity and him made her turn and slide down into the dip, where he met her and took her into his arms.

A scrabbling brought an eager third party.

“Down,” Robin said.

A whine.

“I have never allowed a dog in my bed, you little pest, and will not start now. Get down.”

Petra thought reason couldn’t work, but perhaps it was tone. She heard a rustling of the quilt, then claws on the wooden floor.

“She’s probably sleeping in my coat, damn her,” he said, but without heat.

She loves you,
Petra thought, but managed to keep that to herself. But, oh, she shouldn’t be here in his arms. He might be able to control himself, but she wasn’t sure she could.

“Wasn’t this where we were on the ship?” she asked, inhaling his smell, absorbing his warmth.

“Trust me.”

Petra sent up a prayer that she could trust herself.

Again she tried to sleep. Again she failed.

“Are you awake?” she asked softly.

“Yes.”

“If not for me, where would you be going now?”

“To London,” he said. “You see, you’ve only taken me a little out of my way.”

“That dirty place everyone escapes in summer?”

“It’s also the hub of all roads. I have to go through it to get to Huntingdon, but I have a few small matters to take care of there. If you think Riddlesome is there or at Richmond Lodge, it will be easy to check.”

“From what you said, I doubt it.”

His hand moved on her shoulder. She knew it was his instinct to stroke, to comfort. He instantly stopped. His careful control could break her heart.

“I know you’re even less likely to trust me with your father’s name now,” he said, “but there are some very bad men among the peerage.”

“I know. In Italy, too.”

“If he’s vile or doesn’t acknowledge you, what will you do?”

“Go to Teresa Imer. To Mistress Cornelys. Perhaps I can be of some use to her.”

“I shudder to think. Please, Petra, allow me to find you a safe place. My mother would take you under her wing, for your religion if for no other reason.”

Petra might have truly shuddered. Live on the fringes of Robin’s life as he went on his way, enjoying loose ladies and eventually marrying a tight one. Tight? That didn’t seem quite the right word.

“Petra?”

“We’ll see,” she said, deliberately echoing him.

“I see,” he replied wryly.

“Robin, why should your mother welcome a young woman of scandalous background who’s dragged her son into mishap and danger? I’m Cock Robin’s sparrow, aren’t I?”

“I’ll keep bows and arrows out of reach. Go to sleep. All will be well. I’ll make sure of it.”

He fell asleep, but Petra lay a little longer, pressed close to him, before easing apart and back to her safer edge. She tried to stay awake, to be on guard, but sleep sucked her down.

Robin wasn’t asleep, so he knew when she moved apart. Was he imagining reluctance? At least she hadn’t wanted lovemaking. He hadn’t thought it likely, but the prospect had worried him. He knew no gracious way to handle a situation like this. He wanted to blow his brains out over that one word.

Coquette tried her luck again, leaping up and wriggling under his hand. He let her stay. He needed some loving comfort. But then he remembered stroking Petra after that disaster. The elegant pleasuring of women had been part of his education, and it included attention to their feelings and their dignity. “A gentleman should be a gentleman in every part of life” had been his father’s dictum. Whore, duchess, or merry widow, there must be courtesy and mutual delights—and a disciplined avoidance of disasters.

“Disaster” was too tame a word for his current predicament. He was tempted to avoid Thorn for fear of his opinion, but he needed to get Petra into protection as soon as possible. He could leave her at Ithorne, however, on the excuse of racing up to London to make sure Powick and Fontaine were safe. And everyone else at his London house, he supposed.

Yes, he’d do that, and now he’d stay awake to be sure Josh Fletcher didn’t creep up here with a bread knife. Or Varzi appear, torture implements in hand…

“Mr. Bonchurch?”

It took Robin a moment to realize that was him, and that, plague take it, he’d fallen asleep after all. But it was morning and they’d survived. And Josh Fletcher was calling him from downstairs.

“Yes,” Robin called back, sitting up, easing an ache in his back.

“You need to be down, sir, if you want a bite before setting off.”

“Thank you.”

Robin turned, but Petra was already out of bed, her back to him. She, too, stretched, arching with her hands in her back. Robin’s mouth dried at the sinuous beauty of her in morning light. Her simple gown did nothing to hide the lines of her body, and above the neckline he could see the fine bones of her neck and the beginning of the long indent of her spine.

She bent to pick up her shoes, and his mouth watered at her natural grace….

He dragged his eyes and mind away, turned, and pulled on his boots, forcing his mind to practical matters—ways to persuade her to let him help her.

He wanted her, though, in more ways than the physical. He’d fight armies to possess her.

But a part of him wanted to escape the chaos she brought, to get back to carefree days. It had been a terrible year. The shock of his father’s death had crushed the whole family—his mother, his two brothers and two sisters, aunts and uncles, servants, tenants…. A vital, respected, beloved man gone in a week from a neglected gash from a bull he’d been admiring at the local fair.

He realized he was just sitting there and rose to stamp his boots into place. He’d pulled everything together again. The world was more or less turning in the right direction. He’d played the earl at court and in parliament, and then plunged into summer amusements.

And now this.

Coquette was quivering at the edge of the ladder, impatient to go outside and piss. That was a simple matter, easily solved. He put on his sword and heavy coat and found Petra ready, too. Why had he bought her a dark red cloak? Because he’d known how magnificently it would suit her.

He scooped up the dog and went down, turning at the bottom to offer assistance. She was already following without help. Wise woman. That’s the way it should be.

T
hey followed noises to the room at the back—a beam-ceilinged kitchen with a bed alcove at one side. When asked, the pipe-smoking Fletcher directed them outside to a privy. When they returned, Robin asked for a bowl of water for his dog, and some scraps of meat if there were any.

Fletcher’s jaw dropped at the sight of Coquette, and Robin knew he’d mutated from puzzling to a proper strange ’un. He and Petra shared a simple breakfast of ale, bread, and pickled herring. Robin offended his own code by not assisting Petra to sit, but when she sipped from her pot and pulled a face, he said, “Do you have any small beer, sir? My sister doesn’t care for ale.”

Fletcher looked at her with disapproval, but he took a tankard into the taproom and came back with some. Petra gave the man one of her smiles, and the smuggler might even have blushed.

“Well, then, strong ale’s not to everyone’s taste,” he said. “I hope that suits you better, Miss Bonchurch.”

“Yes, thank you.”

She bewitched every man she met. That, too, would make a devilish wife.

“Have to be off,” Fletcher said. “Dan wants an early start.” Because he was transporting the illegal cargo from the
Courlis,
Robin assumed. It would crown all to be taken up for smuggling, but at least here he had only to wave his title to get off most hooks.

Fletcher led the way out by a back door that led to a lane. “You be going all the way to Ashford, sir?”

“I don’t think so,” Robin said. “I’m for Stowting. I’ve a friend there.”

“Dan can only take you partway, then.”

They were climbing, for the town was built up a hill. Robin looked back at the sea, softly magical in the misty, predawn light. The town still slept, but some fishermen were active in the harbor, preparing boats and nets.

They turned down another lane to where a man as sinewy and ruddy-faced as his brother waited by a plain cart holding only a few sacks and drawn by a swaybacked horse. Words were apparently rationed between the brothers, for the exchange went:

“Stowting.”

“Westerhanger, then. Why Stowting?”

“Friend.”

“What’s the animal?”

“Dog. He says.”

“Rum ’un. I’ll be off, then.”

Dan Fletcher climbed into the seat and merely waited.

Robin helped Petra up into the empty back and joined her, putting Coquette down to run around. She sniffed along a plank, doubtless smelling something interesting beneath the false bottom. They both thanked Josh Fletcher, and the cart rattled off out of town.

They soon passed a signpost:
ASHFORD 11 MILES
,

LONDON 70.
Another finger pointed to
CANTERBURY
, 10

MILES
, and another to
DOVER
, 8.

“Powick and Fontaine should be well on their way to London by now,” he said. “There are coaches that meet the packet.”

“With Varzi and his man in pursuit,” she said.

“They’ll be all right in public. I’d forgotten how rough a ride one gets in a cart, though. I promise you the comfort of springs soon.”

“Promises,” she said, “always promises.” Then she looked surprised at herself for making a joke. She blushed a little and looked around. “It’s a pretty morning.”

“Kent’s a pretty county.”

“The light is beautiful, and the birds seem to be caroling it.”

The sun had risen, turning the sky pink and red, and from the high ground they had a grand view. The dawn chorus wasn’t deafening now as it would be in spring, but enough songbirds greeted the day to provide a show, and gulls were calling as they swooped over the sea.

“Welcome to England,” he said, wanting to be her guide to every part of it.

The best he could do was identify some birdsong and some trees that were strange to her, and share her delight in a couple of rabbits hopping across the road as they rolled along.

“Halt.”

Robin looked around, astonished. Yes, a rider really had just emerged from a stand of trees to point two pistols at them. A highwayman in broad daylight?

“What the…?” Dan Fletcher said, stopping the cart and staring, too.

For a moment Robin thought it might be Thorn playing some trick, but then he recognized Varzi’s man.

“What th’hell do you think you’re doing?” Dan Fletcher shouted, shaking a fist. “Get on with you!”

“I am relieving you of your passengers,” the Italian said. “Make no difficulty.”

Petra seemed frozen, but beneath the concealment of the side of the cart she’d pulled one of Robin’s pistols out of his pocket.

Where was Varzi?

Heart pounding, Robin calculated the odds, knowing he faced likely death. Hell and damnation, but he had no choice. He turned to kneel as if simply facing the man, taking out his other pistol to put on the cart floor. He could only hope Petra had the courage to use them.

“Us?” he asked blankly, loosening his sword. “What do you want?”

Cold, dark eyes fixed on him. “Play no games, sir. I will take the
contessina
and leave you in peace.”

Contessina.

Robin put that aside for now. His only advantage was surprise, so he surged up and vaulted out of the cart, drawing his sword as soon as his feet hit the ground. He ducked to his left, hearing a pistol crack and then the ball splintering into the cart behind him. Damn, he should have told Petra to stay down.

Dan Fletcher yelled something, but Robin was sprinting straight for the horse.

An explosion hammered from behind. Petra had fired. God alone knew where the ball went, but it startled the Italian enough that his second shot went wild. The man leapt off his wild-eyed horse, his rapier screaming out of its scabbard to send a thrust right at Robin’s heart.

Robin parried it easily, but everything was clear now.

This was to the death.

A light, almost a fire, in the man’s eyes said he was a true swordsman who loved to fight and doubtless did it frequently. Robin loved it, too, but he’d never fought other than for sport.

The Italian knew it. He drew back, showing big white teeth between red lips. “You don’t have to die for this, signor. What is she to you?”

Robin attacked with a classic pattern to disarm. It was countered, but the man stopped smiling.

“What is she to
you
?” Robin asked, then tried another pattern. He had to think of this as a bout at Angelo’s. It was the only way.

“A rich prize,” the man said, again countering in an equally classic way. “Give her up.”

Robin was sure the man knew many ways to fight outside the rules and would use them. For now he was giving Robin time to think, to accept defeat. Varzi’s way seemed to be “Create no more of a problem than one must.”

Robin also knew some ways to fight outside the rules. He enjoyed training with a man called Fitzroger, an interesting friend of a friend, and had learned a lot, but he didn’t fool himself that he was in this man’s class. He was good; among his friends, he was considered very good, but he wasn’t a professional.

He had no damn choice, however. “She goes nowhere unwillingly,” he said, and attacked suddenly with an unconventional move, and was rewarded by his opponent’s switch to deadly seriousness. They fought fast and furiously then, and he held his own.

But he wasn’t good enough.

He knew it.