A Lady’s Secret (8 page)

Petra moved to another bundle. The valet. A kick to the body gained no response at all. He might as well be dead, and being slightly built, the drug’s effect would have been stronger. He might indeed be dead. She went to one knee and felt for a pulse. Slow and steady, thank God, but he wouldn’t wake soon. She had the same result with the postilion, another small man. She and Robin were alone for now, but at least Madame Goulart was immobilized. She was the leader.

Robin had set Jizzy to tying up Solette, who hissed like a feral cat. Petra remembered the relish with which the rat-toothed young woman and the brothel owner had discussed turning her into a whore. They were vile, and tomorrow they’d be in the hands of the law, but only if she and her party could survive the night.

“Maria.”

It took Petra a moment to realize Robin was calling her.

“Come and tie up Jizzy.”

Petra did, but hated the fact that the scared young woman was crying, lips quivering, nose running. She hardened her heart, put down the pistol well out of the woman’s reach, and approached warily. There was no fight in Jizzy, however. She held out her plump wrists, begging not to be hurt. Petra cursed herself for not noticing plump wrists before. These “poor peasants” were well fed.

As Jizzy sat miserably with the other two, Mère Goulart caught Petra’s eye and said, “Tongue and eyes, Sister. You’re for it.”

Despite everything, Petra backed away, stumbling over the gun. She grabbed and pointed it. “Another word and I’ll kill you!”

The woman went silent, but her eyes were evil and cunning.

In English again, Petra said, “If there’s any way to escape, she’ll find it. And the old woman’s still in the house. I don’t think your men can be awakened—”

“We need only to keep alert.”

“This is all because of Coquette’s ridiculous collar. They think it’s real. That you’re a rich English milord.”

“It is real,” he said, “but if you remember the conversation, this is mostly because of your ridiculous beauty. Also real.”

“I’m not worth four lives.”

“You obviously don’t know a beautiful virgin’s worth in some quarters. A nun, as well. A premium for that.”

The women were bound, but Petra felt the threat winding around her.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “It won’t happen.”

“We’ll have to watch them all night. The house, as well….”

“Take some deep breaths, my dear. I’ll keep you safe.”

He still seemed a gossamer warrior, but some deep breaths helped, and his calm comforted her. “I’ve kept all-night vigils in the convent,” she said, satisfied with her steady voice. “I can do this.”

“And I’ve enjoyed long nights in less holy pursuits,” he said. “See? We’re well equipped.”

“But before vigils I enjoyed decent sleep the night before,” she said. And she hadn’t been afraid. Now she was shivering with shock and exhaustion, but must watch, watch, watch all night, or they would die.

R
obin saw how exhausted Sister Immaculata looked and knew he wasn’t completely alert himself, even though all-night revels truly were common to him. He’d eaten two mouthfuls of the soup before giving up. Perhaps that had been enough to have some effect.

He worried about his men and suddenly about Coquette. If she was her normal self she’d be out here making a fuss. He’d fed her some chicken from the hamper, but she’d licked from his discarded bowl. She’d disdained it after one taste, wise dog, but perhaps she’d eaten enough.

Plague take these foul hags and plague take him. The dog was a pest and a burden, but he should have protected her better. He should have protected everyone. Instead a nun had been their savior, but now she looked at her limit.

They were standing side by side, and he’d like to take her in his arms, but as she said, they had to watch, watch, watch. He’d like to check Jizzy’s knots, but it was too risky to get close to cunning Solette and the madame, and he didn’t think Jizzy had the wit and courage to deliberately make the bonds loose.

The gun hung heavily at the end of Petra’s arm.

“Why not put that down between us?” he said in English. “Then either of us can grab it as needed.”

After a moment she did so, but said, “Give me the sword, or you’ll not have a hand free.”

Stubborn woman, but he passed his rapier. She took a practiced hold on the hilt and tested its weight and balance even as she resumed her watch on the bound women and the silent house.

He shook his head. “Care to explain familiarity with weapons, Sister?”

Eyes ahead, she said, “I wasn’t always in the convent.”

“Pistol and sword work are a routine part of a girl’s education in Italy?”

“No, but not forbidden.”

“Close enough, I’ll be bound. Need I remind you we’re in danger here? Your secrets could kill us.”

She turned to stare. “This has nothing to do with me!”

“Doesn’t it?”

Until he asked the question, he’d not seriously thought this mess could be her doing. “Sometimes people lurk at inns to steer passengers toward doom.”

“You’re mad! I arrived in Abbeville with Lady Sodworth. You heard her calling for me. How many stray nuns could there be at the Tête de Boeuf?”

Robin shook his head. “Only one. I apologize.”

“So I should think. As if I’d have anything to do with
them
.”

As she turned her attention back to the women, he couldn’t help but smile at her outrage. She was right. Whoever she was, Petra d’Averio came from a different sphere than Mère Goulart and her nest of whores. Even now, muddy and exhausted, she was all fine lines and high spirit, back straight, shoulders square, chin angled proudly. She’d taken off her veil, and the tight white cap showed a fine line of skull and neck. Some dark wisps of hair escaped at her nape.

He wanted to brush his fingers through those wisps and feel her shiver of response. To run a finger down the fine bones of her spine. They’d been previously hidden by her veil, but now…

As if aware, she shot a frowning look at him.

He shook himself. “We need help. Try again to wake Powick.”

She put down the sword and went to shake his groom. Powick stopped snoring.

“That’s hopeful. Get a bit rougher with him. He won’t break.”

She slapped Powick’s cheek, and the man swore at her. She didn’t hesitate. She gave him a full blow that made Robin wince in sympathy.

“Wake up! Wake up!” she yelled. “Danger!”

“Huh?” Powick blinked and half rose, but then tried to sink back into sleep again.

The indomitable woman grabbed his shirt and bounced the big man up and down until he began to fight her off. When he almost caught her a blow on the cheek, Robin moved to help, but she scrambled out of reach, muttering, “Stupid men.”

Robin assumed that included him.

Powick was sitting up now, looking furiously for someone to fight. Then he froze, staring at the scene. “What the…?”

“A trifle of trouble,” said Robin. “Sister, bring the wine jug from the coach. And check on Coquette.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, clearly resenting the order.

“Of your kindness, please,” he amended, smiling despite everything.

She might have laughed as she went to the chaise, but Robin noticed the heaviness of her steps. She even wavered once, before wrenching herself straight again. He wanted to tell her to climb onto the makeshift bed and go to sleep, but he knew she wouldn’t until Powick was able to stand guard with him.

He
knew
her. Astonishing after less than a day, but he knew Petra d’Averio. Not her secrets, but her nature—strong, brave, quick-witted, and stubborn. Tested by fire and proved true, and he meant a fire much fiercer than this.

As she poked around in the chaise, her prettily rounded bottom sticking out, he couldn’t help but smile. Was she, too, remembering her earlier groping exploration? He marveled at his self-control then, and shifted now. Ah, the madness of a man’s body that could stir in a situation like this.

“Coquette?” he called.

“Sleeping, but I think she’s all right.”

She worked her way out of the chaise, wine jug in hand. When she was back on the ground, she paused to take a good swig before carrying it to Powick. The groom had his head in his hands, but he looked up when she spoke, grabbed the jug, and drank deep. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked over at Robin again.

“What trouble have you fallen into now, lad?”

“I’m demoted to lad, am I? This is hardly my fault. This pretty lot tried to kill us.”

“What?”

“All of us. Except my lady sister. She was intended for a brothel, though a far more expensive one than this.”

Powick swore, then begged Petra’s pardon and took another long swallow of wine.

Robin gave him a more detailed account of events, and Powick shook his head. “Always into trouble of some sort,” he muttered. “So, what do we do now?”

“Keep watch until we can leave, but it doesn’t require all of us at once.” Petra had weakened enough to lean on one of the posts. “You take the first sleeping shift,” he told her.

She instantly straightened. “I can manage.”

“I’m sure, but one of us needs to sleep now so as to be able to stand watch later, and I need to make plans with Powick.” When she still hesitated, he said, “I’ll wake you later. I promise.”

He didn’t specify when.

She made no further argument. He suspected it was an effort to walk to the carriage in a straight line, and the three steps up seemed to be a challenge. Her gray-covered bottom disappeared into the dark. He saw no more but was sure she was asleep as soon as she lay down.

“Reminds me a lot of your lady mother, sir,” Powick said.

Robin turned to him in surprise. “What?”

“Doesn’t stand for any nonsense when something needs to be done.”

As best Robin knew, the Countess of Huntersdown had never handled sword or pistol in her life, and he couldn’t imagine her climbing out of a window, but he saw Powick’s point. He captured the wine jug and drank. “I’ve no idea what she’s up to.”

“Not a real nun?”

“She swears she is, but I think she has a nimble way with the truth. Even her names. Petra d’Averio and Sister Immaculata and Maria Bonchurch…”

“Maria Bonchurch, sir? But—”

“It’s complicated.”

“Now, there’s a new start.” Powick pushed himself to his feet, shaking himself like a big dog. “You need some sleep, too, lad.”

“You’re not alert enough yet.”

“I can manage this lot.”

“There’s an old woman in the house.”

“Nimble?”

“Crippled.”

“Reckon I can handle her, too, then, and I’ll see if I can wake the others.”

When Robin found he was too tired to argue, he knew Powick was right, but a dirty quilt on the damp ground didn’t appeal.

“I’m cold.” The whine from one of the women startled him out of a half sleep.

The young whore with the big, stupid eyes was looking at him piteously. Her misery and fear stirred Robin’s protective instincts, but he steeled himself against it. “You won’t die of it.”

Powick picked up his discarded quilt and tossed it to her. She fiddled it into place with her bound hands, but the other young one tried to snatch it and they ended up in a tug-of-war.

“Share it,” Madame Goulart growled, and Robin gave her credit for that. He met her flat eyes, knowing she would be a formidable opponent, given any chance at all.

As if she could read his mind, she said, “Set us free when you leave and we’ll say no more about this. Give us that dog collar, too. Anything else, and we’ll say you attacked us. Forced your way in. Stole our food and drink….”

Powick growled at her to shut up. He spoke English, but she got the message and fell silent. She had a point, though. Who would the local authorities believe? True, these were whores, but they were local whores, probably used by local men. It was always easier to blame outsiders, especially the old enemy, the English. Their accusations wouldn’t stick, of course, but it could be damned messy for a while.

What was best, what was right…?

When he couldn’t follow through on that thought, Robin knew he was worse than useless at the moment. It was as if sleep, once thought about, became an invincible force. He headed for the chaise, discovering he wasn’t too tired to smile.

“Sir,” Powick said disapprovingly.

“I’m too exhausted for a willing woman, and I assure you, our nun is not at all willing. I have the scratches to prove it. She’s not even awake. I do prefer my lovers awake….” He had sense enough to stop babbling and simply climb into the coach. Realizing he was in stocking feet, he peeled the muddy things off and dropped them outside. His boots were out there, too, somewhere, where he’d left them when he’d first settled to sleep….

His mind was wandering again.

The dim lights outside hardly reached inside, but Mère Goulart’s lantern meant that Robin could make out Petra curled on her side facing him, covered by the silk tapestry he’d dug out hours ago to serve as cover. Hours that felt like days.

She was in the middle of the space. He sat on the edge of the makeshift bed, pulled the door closed, and then slid under the tapestry, staying as far from Petra as he could. He wouldn’t take advantage of a sleeping nun, especially one who’d saved his life.

He couldn’t help but touch her warm body.

She stirred and rolled, but only onto her back.

How could he be aroused and exhausted at the same time? He couldn’t not look, not sense each breath, not detect her warm scent. Sweat intensified an essence that would remain after the longest bath and hum beneath the most expensive perfume.

That snug cap. It must be uncomfortable, tied so firmly beneath her chin.

Ladies often wear nightcaps tied exactly like that,
his conscience protested.

But not such tightly made ones, down on the brow, close over the ears.

He was skilled at arguing with his conscience. And winning. He found the string tie and tugged. As he’d hoped, the bow slid undone with only slight resistance. In moments, he had it loose, and even the brush of his fingers against the skin beneath her chin didn’t make her stir. Though it certainly stirred him.

He hesitated. He didn’t need more scratches.

Not tonight, at least.

He couldn’t resist. Breath held, he slid his hand beneath her head, enjoying the feel of her neat skull cradled there. She stirred and mumbled something with those soft, pink, kissable lips, but then settled again. He raised her head just enough to slip off the cap. As he slowly slid his fingers free, enjoying every second, she gasped.

He froze, but she simply turned away from him and settled again, muttering angrily. It sounded fearful as well as angry.

Who pursues you, Petronilla Maria d’Averio?

He lay down, eyes closing, sleep creeping over him.

Fear not. I won’t let anyone harm you. But I’ll have your secrets, all of them, before we part.