A Lady’s Secret (4 page)

“Stubbornness is not a virtue.”

“Nor is persistence.”

“Isn’t it? Sister Immaculata—if that is your real name—I predict that you’ll encounter difficulties in England. You will need me.”

She met his eyes firmly. “And I know that I will not.”

Her declaration was hollow and he must have known it, but she could not allow him to take over her life. She understood his price for that.

He shrugged with irritating confidence. “So you seek a gentleman of the court. If you won’t supply a name, I will. A title?” When she didn’t respond, he said, “Why not? Lord, as it covers everyone except dukes. I assume he’s not a duke?”

“You are irritatingly flippant, sir.”

“If you won’t amuse, I must. Let’s see. Lord Mystery, Lord Conundrum, Lord Puzzle, Lord Riddle…Riddle!” he declared. “You seek Lord Riddlesome.”

“As you wish.” Petra smiled despite herself. By chance he had the first letter right.

“But unless Riddlesome is part of the king’s household, Sister dear, he won’t be at Richmond Lodge. He’ll be enjoying bucolic pleasures at his country estate—Riddlesome Hall. So where is that?”

She remained silent.

“North of London?”

That tricked a “No” out of her and she tightened her lips.

“You are a very irritating woman,” he said. His silly little dog suddenly whined and came to her feet. He scooped her up. “She irritates you, too?” He smiled at Petra. “She says yes.”

“She’d say yes to anything you said,” she snapped, then realized she’d been tricked into his nonsense.

“Just because you can win over a dog so easily doesn’t mean you will win me.”

“No?” Long fingers playing in fur again, stroking the dog to besotted contentment.

She forced her gaze up to his face. “Not even with your beautiful blue eyes.”

He smiled. “Are they beautiful?”

Why, oh, why, had she said that? Grateful that growing darkness stole their power, she said, “You know they are, sir, and you enjoy using them to devastating effect.”

“Are you devastated?”

“Not at all.”

“Of course, you’re not lying in my lap, being stroked. We were talking of Coquette, weren’t we?”

Heat flared in her cheeks. “It’s wicked to say such things to a nun!”

“It’s wicked for a nun to respond.”

“I didn’t!”

He silently accused her of lying, and he was right. But then he said, “I apologize. Unfair to play such games when you have no escape. I’ll try to be good. So what is your native tongue?”

Petra felt tossed breathlessly from near drowning onto dry land.

“Italian.”

“Then your linguistic abilities are impressive. Your French is good and your English almost perfect.”

“Only almost?”

“Alas, a slight accent, but lovely.”

She smiled, but then realized she was being stroked in another way.

“How did you learn so well?” he asked.

Petra searched the question for traps, but found none. “I had an English nurse, then later an English governess. How do you speak such good French?”

“I had a French nurse and governess, but my mother is French and spoke French to her children. Your mother was English?”

“No.”

“Your father?

Petra hesitated, then said, “Yes.”

“He spoke English to you?”

“No.”

“Alas, he died when you were young?”

Petra knew then that she shouldn’t have gone in this direction. “He left.”

“I see. Your mother?”

“Died recently.”

“My condolences.” He seemed to mean it. “Is that why you became a nun?”

“I’ve been in the convent for some years now.”

He hadn’t expected that and didn’t welcome it. She saw no hint of peevishness, however. By Saint Peter, she was beginning to like him, and that was truly dangerous.

“How old are you?” he asked, but then rain rattled sharply against her window. She turned, and he exclaimed, “Plague take it!”

Lost in their competitive conversation, they’d missed the change in the weather. Dark, heavy clouds roiled toward them, and sudden lightning flared. Too soon afterward, a crackling roll of thunder shook the air. The carriage jerked as the horses reacted and then sped up.

The little dog yelped and burrowed beneath Mr. Bonchurch’s coat. Petra wished she could do the same. She hated lightning, and the storm was on her side of the carriage. Another spear of lightning lit the inside of the coach with unnatural white light, making her flinch away from the window up against him. Instead of protecting her, he thrust the trembling dog into her hands, then let down his window to call out to his rider racing along on that side. “Is there any shelter nearby, Powick?”

“Not in sight, sir!” the man yelled back, hunched against the slashing rain, his horse wild-eyed.

Petra covered the quivering bundle of bones and fur in the skirt of her habit, murmuring reassurances she wished she could believe.

“Any idea how far we’ve traveled?” Bonchurch was asking.

“Perhaps five miles, sir.”

He closed the window and swept wet hair off his face—but spared a moment to glance down and smile. Petra realized her bare legs were exposed up to the knee.

“Well?” she asked sharply.

“Exceedingly well.” But then he returned to business. “Too far to go back. Too far from the next town.” He dug a slim book out of his coat pocket and opened it to consult a road map and guide.

He was a reprehensible rake, but there was nothing indolent or idle about him now. Given the situation, Petra was glad of it. But dog or not, she’d been right to think him dangerous. He wouldn’t be easy to handle or easy to get rid of.

Wanting to cover her legs again, she pulled her Saint Veronica cloth off her belt and bundled the dog in that, holding it close to murmur, “Out of the pan but into the fire, Coquette. Both you and me. But I won’t let you burn.”

R
obin was cursing himself upside and down. He’d known there was danger of a storm, but he’d slid into games and lost track of the situation. Even Coquette had tried to warn him. Now they were exposed in open countryside with the thunderstorm almost on top of them. If the chaise was struck, it could go up in flames.

Then the full force of the rain hit like a drenching sheet, blinding the view through the windows, drumming on the carriage roof. In minutes the road would be mud; not long after, a quagmire. They could be literally stuck. If they survived the storm, they could still be locked in place overnight.

He stabbed his fingers at the map. “Nouvion’s the next stage,” he shouted over the noise. “We’ll try for that, but watch out of your window for any kind of shelter.”

She looked as terrified as poor Coquette. At least the dog was swaddled, but nothing could protect it from the noise.

He let down the window again to shout his orders, commanding all speed. The chaise lurched ahead, but then slid violently sideways. Sister Immaculata bounced into him. Robin caught her. Even though he instantly released her, a jolt that could be lightning of a different sort shot through him. He thought he saw a similar response in her. The coach straightened and hurtled on.

“That could have crushed Coquette,” she yelled.

He opened the food hamper on the floor and tugged out a wicker-wrapped wine jug. Then he grabbed the bundle of dog and tucked it into the spot, making sure Coquette could breathe. He closed the hamper, considered the jug, uncorked it, and took a long swallow. Then he offered it to his nun. His nun with shapely legs and deliciously trim ankles.

She shook her head, clutching the strap on her door but still being tossed around, her eyes white edged with terror.

He put down the wine jug. “Come here.”

She shook her head, so he grabbed her and pulled. “I can brace my legs to keep in place. Yours are too short. Let go.”

She surrendered. He held her close with one arm. She clutched his coat for purchase. The chaise hurtled wildly now, with an orchestral accompaniment of cracks, rolls, and rumbles. A dazzling flash was followed by an explosion that felt right on top of them. The coach lurched wildly toward his side, and Sister Immaculata rolled completely on top of him. He cinched her close.

He was ensuring her safety, but he’d have to be dead not to notice full breasts pressed against him with no hint of stays to spoil the fun. A firm bottom was almost under his hand, with no hoops or quilted petticoats to muffle it.

He couldn’t resist sliding his hand farther south. If heaven’s wrath incinerated him now, at least he’d be doing something to justify it. If only she were another sort of wench. Her sheath was mere inches from his blade, and a love joust in a storm could be magnificent.

At his touch she stiffened, bracing her hands to push away. He tightened his hold, lowering his lips close to her ear. “Apologies to your heavenly bridegroom, Sister, but I think he’d prefer me to keep you safe.”

She squirmed, and a lurch in the other direction slid her astride him. She cried, “Stop it!”

“I have many talents,” he laughed, “but controlling the weather isn’t one of them.”

“You know what I mean—”

Another blinding light and roar ended her protests. She sealed herself to him with hands and legs, head tucked down as if to make a smaller target. Robin grinned, reveling in the wild power of the storm and the lightning energy between their bouncing bodies.

Just how close was he to her secret delights? Did nuns go naked underneath? Or did chastity demand confinement? He’d read that some monks wore tight drawers day and night to guard against self-pleasure. Sometimes they were of leather or even sheepskin. He’d need plate metal to guard against the pleasure of his nun bouncing around his hard cock.

He laughed again. He couldn’t help it.

She looked up at him, wild-eyed, headwear askew. “You’re mad!”

He kissed her. How could he not?

Her parted lips pressed shut, but not immediately.

She pushed away again, but not desperately.

She was half-willing. He coaxed her lips open, explored her mouth, and began to inch up her skirts. She began to kiss him back….

But then she wrenched her mouth away, stiffening, preparing to thrust away entirely.

“My apologies, Sister,” he murmured. “The storm…”

She stared at him, eyes dark and huge, and then licked those lips.

Oh, don’t.

“You’re afraid, too?” she asked.

“Very.”

“It’s silly, I know….”

“Are you calling me silly?”

“No, but I don’t like storms.”

“I do. They excite me. But I’ll be good.”

He kissed her temple, hoping it felt soothing. It didn’t soothe him. Nothing could soothe him as long as they were locked together like this, but he’d fight armies not to separate.

“It’s not foolish to fear danger,” he said. “My own heart is galloping. See, feel.”

He pressed her left hand to his chest. With his waistcoat undone, only his shirt lay between his skin and the heat of her palm. She remained like that, numbly trusting—until she became aware of their position and pushed fiercely away.

But then the coach rocked violently to the left, perhaps even sliding toward a ditch. Robin braced for complete disaster, preparing to shield her as best he could, but then it corrected and hurtled on. He hoped the postilion still had command of the horses, but if not there was nothing he could do now other than ride the wild motion and keep his charges from injury.

Sister Immaculata had stopped trying to escape, but she was trying to close her legs without losing safety, wriggling in the process. When she accepted defeat she was still straddling him, but he was in danger of firing off. And oh, Jupiter, her scent—earthy, not perfumed, but intoxicating.

One day he would have a perfume designed for her. Nothing heavy or cloying, but not sweet, either. Something fresh, even astringent, to be used lightly, very lightly. Perfumed water for her silken underclothes, perfumed lotion for her skin, perfumed oil for her bath. Which he would share with her…

He needed her breasts in his hands, her nipple in his mouth. He needed to be pounding into her with each jolt of the coach, needed another kind of lightning storm.

Maledizione,
as she had so aptly said.

“Is it over?” she whispered, as if the god of storms might hear.

Robin realized the lightning and thunder had definitely moved on, though the rain still pounded and the carriage still rocked. One storm was diminishing, but the other still raged, and she looked so very ripe for love.

Over? My sacred jewel, it has only just begun.

Then the coach stopped.

Her eyes widened. “What now?” But then she realized her position and pushed away from him just as he let her go. She flew back across the coach to thump into her corner. Her “No!” clashed with his “Are you all right?”

They stared at each other, both breathing hard.

Robin turned away, glad of the excuse to lower the window and find out their situation. Deep in the mire, he thought, and he was not thinking of the road.

“Are we stuck?” he called.

“Not yet, sir,” said Powick, “but soon. There’s something ahead. A light probably coming through shutters.”

“Thank God. Tell the postilion to go forward carefully, and you ride ahead to ask for shelter.”

As the coach moved forward, Robin peered down, ignoring the rain on his head.

“How bad is it?” Sister Immaculata asked.

He pulled his head in, raised the glass, and turned to her, pulling out a handkerchief to soak up some of the wet in his hair. She offered him her own—a square as plain and white as his, but smaller.

He thanked her and used it. “There’s six inches of mud, and the rain’s showing no sign of ending soon. Pray, Sister, that this place will offer shelter.”

She grasped her rosary. “Of course, but how long will we have to stay?”

“Until the road firms up again. We’re in no hurry. At least,” he said, considering her, “I’m not.”

Her pale face was now tight. Had her only problem been the screeching Sodworth? He suddenly wondered if she were a thief. He’d taken her word that the trunk belonged to her. It was a very nunlike piece of luggage, to be sure, but perhaps he’d been too trusting.

A faint whine startled him. He’d forgotten Coquette. He opened the hamper and grimaced. “She’s stained your cloth in her fright. Is that sacrilege?”

“No.”

He extracted the still-frightened dog, leaving the soiled cloth behind. “What is it?”

“A reminder of the cloth Saint Veronica used to wipe the face of Christ. The Sisters of Saint Veronica care for the poor and injured in the streets.”

Comforting the dog, he turned that over in his mind. A strange detail to invent. And if true, an extraordinary calling—and one that made her journey to England even more puzzling.

Robin suddenly wanted to smash something. She was a nun, after all, and even to him a true nun was untouchable, no matter how beautiful, how enticing her body, how hotly she kissed.

“Your food’s ruined, too,” she said.

“Ours. A shame, that, for heaven knows what we’ll eat tonight.”

Where the hell were they and what was this place? It shouldn’t be so dark this early, but the storm had brought its own night and rain still blurred the windows. All he could make out was a long, low building on Sister Immaculata’s side of the coach. He leaned across to lower the window.

She flinched back. “Sir!”

He probably had brushed against her breasts, but no more firmly than a butterfly’s wings. “I need to open the window to see better.”

She shoved him away. “I’ll do it.”

She struggled with the catch, but he judged it wiser not to assist. When she loosed it, the window rattled down too fast. Just possibly one of those Italian curses escaped her.

He’d forgotten those promising curses.

A nun or not a nun, that was the question.

Then again, not all nuns were virtuous.

A saint or a sinner? Could a person be both?

“It’s a long, low building,” she said, “but it doesn’t look promising.”

He leaned to see, careful not to touch her. “It’s here or nowhere, and it promises dryness, warmth, and a bed for the night.”

“Beds,” she corrected, raising the window again with a fierce push.

Robin settled back onto his side. “I meant nothing else, Sister.”

She glared. “You
kissed
me.”

“You kissed me back.”

“It was the storm. I was frightened.”

“I was born during one, they say, and they drive me mad.” He smiled at her bafflement. “Your headdress is awry. Would you like me to straighten it?”

She blushed and gave it a sharp twist, but a dark tendril still showed, and her blush turned beauty into magic. Robin could hardly breathe. He hid his expression by considering the damage to the contents of the hamper.

“You must never do such a thing again,” she said.

“Put Coquette in a safe container?”

“Kiss me!”

“Or?”

“I thought you feared God.”

“Sister Immaculata, He already has so many counts against me that a mere kiss, even with a nun, will hardly weigh an ounce.”

“Then why aren’t you raping me?”

Robin simply stared. “I don’t rape,” he said coldly, “and I promised you safety. The one sin I have never committed is to break my given word.”

She flinched back. “I’m sorry, but cease such folly. I will never succumb.”

“The future is a mystery.”

“No. It is ours to shape.”

When she turned to look outside, Robin absorbed that statement with admiration and doubt. Mysterious as the future was, he predicted trouble for Sister Immaculata. She was alone and vulnerable in a dangerous world.

He saw Powick arrive at the building. The people there would have to give them some sort of shelter. Which could present some problems.

“Sister.”

She turned back to him, prepared for another fight.

“We may need a story.”

“Why?”

“Our hosts may wonder why a nun is traveling without female escort. Especially with a man such as I.”

“You are every inch a rake,” she agreed.

“Then why come with me?”

“Lady Sodworth.” But her eyes slid away.

“Then I hope you’ve learned your lesson. She’s doubtless enjoying a cozy supper before settling into a warm, dry bed, and we’re faced with, at best, straw and soup. Come to think of it, I could be in the same comfort. I’d have stayed safe at Abbeville if not for you.”

Her eyes widened. “Are you suggesting this is all
my
fault?”

Robin addressed the rapidly recovering dog. “She’s an unreasonable, argumentative woman, is she not?”

“I am not!” she protested.

“Facts are facts.” Before she could complain about that, the carriage jerked to a stop. “Open the window and tell me what you can see.”

Muttering her opinion of him, she did so, letting in cold, wet air. “We’re by a lane leading to the back of the house. Your man is talking to someone at the front door. The ground’s covered with water.”

Robin leaned across her to call, “Fontaine!”

“Yes, sir,” said his valet, the very picture of dripping misery.

“Are the wheels sinking now we’ve stopped?”

“No more than they were, sir. I am
very
wet.”

“So you are.” Robin closed the window and sat back.

“Your master,” Sister Immaculata said to the dog in his lap, “is cruel and heartless.”

“Is it not entirely her fault, Coquette, that my poor valet is exposed to the storm?”

Coquette yipped in agreement.

“Sycophant,” she accused.

“Termagant,” he retorted. “And I don’t mean the dog.”

“Of course not. She never disagrees with you.”

“She doesn’t always obey. Damn this never-ending rain. Our story,” he said. “Here we are, traveling despite bad weather, a nun and three men. Suspicious. They might think we’re eloping. One winces at the possible punishments for ravishing a nun.”

“Like Abelard,” she said, a glint in her eye.