Almost a Lady (25 page)

He leaned forward and twitched the blanket from her hands, revealing her breasts. He put his hands over them, a warm enclosing clasp, and her nipples rose at the touch. “I adore your breasts,” he said softly, his gaze holding hers.

The coarse derision of the intruders had cut him to the quick and he didn’t know why. Meg had reacted swiftly and inventively to the danger and it should have pleased him; instead a most powerful anger had filled him and it had required all his self-control to keep from slamming his fists into their mocking mouths. He never permitted emotion to interfere with the practical needs of a situation, but he had been within a hair’s breadth of doing so. And he had no idea why.

Meg put her hands over his and managed a smile. “I wasn’t offended.” It was a lie but he was so obviously upset by the insult she felt the need to reassure him.

“They were louts.” His mouth hardened for an instant.

“Yes.”
And you’re a killer.
She laughed with what she hoped was conviction. “My self-esteem is not damaged in the least, Cosimo.”

He gave her a searching look and was not entirely convinced. However, it was better to let it go; dwelling on a hurt only made it worse. “It certainly shouldn’t be,” he said, leaning closer to kiss her, easing her backwards.

She slid down onto the cot and he came over her, moving his mouth to her breasts as his hand slipped into the waist of her britches, reaching farther between her thighs until his fingers found her moistening center.

“You were going to kill them,” Meg declared, pushing herself up again so that his exploring fingers lost their destination. “I saw the knife.”

Cosimo retracted his hand with some difficulty and sat up, resuming his position on the edge of the cot. Again he looked at her intently. “Meg, do you understand what could have happened? We were boarded by some form of officialdom . . . there are many such forms along the waterways, some legal, some not, it makes no difference. I had told them I was alone. Once they saw you—”

Meg interrupted him. “They had a great deal of amusement at our expense and then went on their merry way.”

“Had they not, both of us would have been suffering in some stinking jail,” he said, his voice harsh now. “These peasants have little refinement. I leave it to your imagination.”

“You said you don’t kill for pleasure,” Meg said, watching his eyes, watching for that look that had so chilled her.

“I don’t.” His expression was unmoving but the cold deliberation she had seen was absent. The Cosimo she knew was now inhabiting his body.

“But you do kill?”

“When necessary, when my own life is in danger . . . or the lives of those who are important to me.” It was an admission he was quite comfortable with. But he was not ready yet to tell her that he also when necessary killed for a purpose . . . that in essence he was an assassin who needed no personal provocation. She was not ready to hear that yet.

He softened his voice. “This is a dirty business, love. You can’t expect to play in the mud and not get your hands dirty.”

“No,” she agreed. “I don’t.” She stared into the dimness of the cabin. A man in Cosimo’s world had to be prepared for anything. She could imagine what those men would have done to her if they’d had the chance. And she could imagine what they would have done to Cosimo. So, all was fair in war. A man had a right to protect himself and those he loved. Or at least, those he lusted after, she amended wryly. And she had made her own decision and would just have to get over the bits she didn’t like. Why should it trouble her so much? This was just an adventure with a wonderfully attractive, deeply sensuous lover. Exploring each other’s souls had never been a part of the bargain.

“So what now?” she asked, brightly changing the subject. “Aren’t we adrift in the middle of a river?”

“Not exactly,” he said, reaching a hand out to her breasts again. “We’re at anchor. And if you’re prepared for a very quick encounter, we could indulge ourselves.”

But she wasn’t, Meg realized. She offered a rueful smile. “I’m sorry, but I think that encounter was enough for tonight. I don’t seem to feel—”

He stood up at once. “No, of course not. Insensitive of me. That was horrid for you. I’m going to sail until dawn and then find some small town where I can sell the boat and we’ll continue overland.” He leaned over and kissed her softly. “Sleep, Meg. It will be better in the morning.”

She lay down again, wide awake, every muscle tensed and jumping. It wouldn’t be better in the morning. She had to stop pretending to herself that this was a game. This passionate adventure was being played out on enemy territory. Her lover was a spy and when necessary he killed without compunction. How had she been foolish enough to imagine that she could subsume that reality into some kind of romantic fiction? How had she been blind enough to imagine that she didn’t care what kind of man he was? She cared . . . deeply.

On deck, Cosimo hoisted the sail and took the tiller. The barge had receded into the distance towards Bordeaux. Its crew may have been momentarily satisfied by the vulgar exchange with the sailboat, but somewhere along the line of information, the encounter with the children on the raft a few miles downstream would filter through and coalesce with tonight’s badinage and the
Rosa
would be marked. They needed to leave the water at the earliest opportunity.

He wondered if Meg was asleep. Her withdrawal from him shouldn’t have troubled him, it was perfectly natural after what she’d just been through, but it did. He would have liked to have comforted her, used the one sure way he knew to heal any damage . . . any hurt inflicted by those peasant brutes. But he had to assume she knew how to heal herself, and maybe she hadn’t been lying when she said their coarse insults had not troubled her. Perhaps she was genuinely tired, emotionally exhausted by her quick-witted response to very real danger. It would be quite understandable, particularly when she was not accustomed to responding to dangerous situations. Ana would have been laughing with him now, with that wild exhilaration that always possessed her after danger had been averted. But Meg was not Ana, and he needed to remind himself of that.

Chapter   18

M
eg stood in the stern of the
Rosa
listening to Cosimo haggle with a burly fisherman from the little town of Cadillac that clung to the banks of the river. They were negotiating a price for
Rosa
and Meg felt rather sad at the thought of leaving the little craft. In the last two days she’d grown accustomed to the gentle motion, the soft sounds of the river, even to sleeping in the narrow bunk.

Cosimo had risked an extra day on the river, reckoning that he would get a better price for his boat in Cadillac, which, although small, was slightly larger than the villages they passed. He also reckoned that he would be able to buy better horses in the town than in the countryside.

At last the two men spat in their hands and shook in the age-old gesture of a bargain completed, and Cosimo came over to Meg. “Well, that’s done,” he said. “For better or worse. There’s a small hostelry in town, not overly salubrious but it’ll do for tonight while I make arrangements for tomorrow. A cart is coming to collect the trunk.”

Meg nodded. “I shall miss
Rosa
.”

He looked at her closely, wondering if her subdued manner was caused only by the prospect of leaving the water. She had not as yet recovered her usual exuberant self after the encounter with the barge outside Bordeaux, and he’d not pressed her, partly, he was forced to admit, because he didn’t want to risk another rejection. He told himself that she was coming to grips with the more dangerous realities of this journey and she was best left to do that in her own fashion.

“Well,” he said cheerfully, “you won’t miss our makeshift meals, and I can guarantee a good dinner this evening. The accommodations at the Cheval Blanc may be a little basic, but it keeps a good kitchen.”

Meg responded with a smile that was slowly becoming less effortful. She had told herself she simply had to adjust her romanticism to reality, not something she would ordinarily find in the least difficult to do. In fact, she would have claimed to have very little romantic sensibility, but she’d certainly let some idealistic version of a passionate adventure rule her head up until the other night. Cosimo was not to blame for her own addle-pated sentimentality and she would manage to shake herself out of it.

“So, we ride from now on?” she said, forcing a note of interest into her voice.

“To start with,” he said.

“But what of the trunk?”

“We’ll dispense with the trunk, and package its contents into saddlebags. Once we’re well clear of this area, then you’ll adopt your petticoats again, and some of the time you can travel by carriage.”

At that Meg shook her head vigorously. “I cannot abide carriages,” she declared. “They make me sick.”

He pulled an earlobe. “That’s awkward. I don’t think you’ll be able to ride all day every day. Are you sure about the carriage? You didn’t get seasick.”

“I’m quite sure,” she said grimly. “I’ve never been able to stand more than an hour at a time in a carriage without vomiting.”

“Well, we’ll have to see,” he said. He had the urge to hold her, to kiss the little worry lines away from her forehead, but here on an open deck, tied up to the quayside of a bustling little town, was no place for physical demonstrations between a pair of sailors.

“What are you grinning about?” Meg demanded, seeing the wicked gleam in his eye, the curve of his mouth.

He told her and was rewarded with a peal of laughter that warmed his heart. “That’s better,” he said, then ventured, “Why so glum just recently?”

She shrugged. “I was unnerved, I suppose.”

“And now?” His eyes narrowed, his gaze intent on her face.

Meg made up her mind. Moping was a pointless activity. What was past was past. It was time to look forward again, otherwise she was wasting her time completely. “I seem to be getting my nerve back,” she responded.

“Perhaps I was expecting you to run before you can walk,” he said thoughtfully. “But you think so quickly in a crisis that I tend to forget you’re inexperienced at this game.”

Meg felt an unexpected rush of pleasure at the compliment. She had noticed on board the
Mary Rose
that the privateer was sparing with compliments to his crew, just as he was with criticisms. His standards were high and it didn’t occur to him that a member of his crew would fail to meet them or even exceed them. And as far as she herself was concerned, any appreciative comments had thus far been confined to the delights of her body and the pleasures of lovemaking.

“Well, thank you, kind sir,” she said with a mock bow.

He touched the cleft in her chin in a brief caress and then was all business again. “I want you to go to the inn and stay there while I clear the boat and arrange for horses. Now that we’ve drawn attention to ourselves, the less visible you are here, the better.”

Meg offered no objection, although when they arrived at the inn she did wrinkle her nose at the grimy bedchamber and the flea-ridden mattress. “Is there nowhere else in this town?” she murmured when the landlord had left them.

“I’m afraid not. I did ask around when I came in earlier. But it’s just for tonight. We’ll be out of here at dawn.”

“What the fleas have left of us,” she retorted, poking at the straw mattress with a disdainful finger. “Is there any spare canvas on the boat? If it’s thick enough, they might not bite through it.”

“I’ll bring what there is,” he promised. “Now stay here and keep out of sight. I’ll be back within the hour.” He saw objection in her eyes, her mouth opening to voice it, and quickly took her by the shoulders, pulling her hard against him. He kissed her, intending it to be a light but firm farewell, except that things changed. He felt her come alive beneath his mouth, her body suddenly taut against him. It was the first time in two days that she had responded to him in this way. He ran his hands down her back, then held her waist as he raised his head for a minute and looked deep into her eyes, reading the swift upsurge of passion dancing across the green surface.

“How agile are you feeling?” he murmured, his hands moving to the fastening of her britches, then pushing them roughly off her hips.

“I’m not going near the bed,” she answered obliquely but in a fervent whisper as she kicked her feet free of sandals and then britches. She tugged his shirt out of his britches, pushing her hands up beneath it, her nails scribbling over his back.

“Wait . . . wait . . . love,” he muttered against her mouth, shrugging out of the shirt, still holding her at the waist. He stepped backwards, drawing her with him, and threw his shirt on the low rough stone of the windowsill.

“Ah, ingenious,” Meg said, her eyes widening with mingled amusement and excitement. She jumped as he lifted her so that she was sitting on the stone sill, her bare skin protected by his shirt. “Are we going to provide a spectacle for anyone below?” she asked. “Should we pass the hat afterwards?”

“Our only audience is a couple of cows,” he said, glancing over her shoulder into the field below. “Now be quiet. Didn’t anyone ever explain to you the detumescent effect of misplaced levity at certain moments?”

“I’m not aware of any such effect,” she said, sliding her flat palm down his belly before deftly unfastening his britches. She enclosed in her palm the very clear evidence in support of her claim, then leaned forward and nibbled his bottom lip, reaching behind to push her free hand down inside his opened britches to the cleft between his buttocks.

Cosimo drew a swift breath and pushed his own hands beneath her bottom, lifting her on the shelf of his palms. She reached her arms around his neck and curled her legs around his hips, fitting herself against him, belly to belly. He was inside her in one smooth thrust and held her as he moved. She clung to his neck, his hands, warm and strong against her bottom, holding her in a precarious position that allowed her no initiative. She could only receive. The dismay and the uncertainty of the last couple of days disintegrated as the pleasure filled her. How could she be afraid of a man who could bring her such delight? Only someone she trusted with her soul, someone to whom she could give herself without restraint, could bring her such joy.

Her heels pressed into his buttocks as the sensation rocked her. She buried her mouth in his shoulder, her arms locking around his neck, helpless to slow the tidal wave, and she felt him shudder against her, pulsing deep within her, his seed flooding her. And when it was over he held her gently as her locked thighs relaxed and she slid down his body until her feet touched the floor.

“Sweet Jesus,” he murmured, pushing a hand through her tangled curls. “Maybe there’s something to be said for a short abstinence once in a while.”

Meg smiled weakly. “Except that we forgot to be careful this time.”

He
had
forgotten. In that wild, spontaneous moment of ecstasy, he had forgotten his usual precaution. Never before had he spilled his seed inside her.

“I should bleed in two days,” she said, seeing his expression.

Cosimo nodded. There was little point worrying about something until there was something to worry about. “I have to go back to the
Rosa
, love. And then to the livery stables, and—”

“And I’m not staying in this cesspit twiddling my thumbs for the rest of the afternoon,” Meg interrupted him as she shook out her britches. The physical intensity of those few moments had energized her, restored her initiative, and she had no intention of meekly staying hidden in this filthy chamber.

“I have a good eye for horseflesh—my father breeds hunters—and I will find us what we need. You’ll need to give me the funds, though.”

Cosimo hesitated for barely an instant. The more involved Meg became in the details of this mission, the easier it would be in the end. “As you wish,” he said, tucking his shirt back into his britches and refastening them. “But I think we need to make a few minor adjustments to your appearance in that case.”

“Oh?” Intrigued, Meg scrambled back into her clothes, watching as he rummaged through a small valise that he had brought with them.

“Ah, my little box of tricks,” he said, taking out a metal tin. “Come here, Ganymede.” He opened the tin.

Meg approached somewhat cautiously. He held a thin pencil and a round pot in the palm of his hand. “What’s that?”

“A pencil and charcoal,” he answered. “I want to enhance your eyebrows a little, and just give the hint of hair on the upper lip. Your figure is convincing, my dear, but your face is all too pure to pass more than a careless glance.”

Meg stood very still, controlling her impatience to see the result, as Cosimo deftly touched the pencil to her eyebrows, then to her upper lip. “Are you sure this isn’t going to look ridiculous?”

“Be quiet!” he ordered. “How can I do this if you keep moving your mouth?”

“Sorry,” she murmured, attempting the utter immobility of a mime, despite the slight tickle that made her want to sneeze.

Cosimo stood back and examined his handiwork critically. “That’ll pass, I believe. But a little shadow here, just along the jawline . . . Yes, that’s perfect. Had you thought about your less-than-authentic accent? I don’t want to start using the cover story until we’re well away from the river. It’s not convincing for a man and a youth on a sailboat.” He waited with interest to see whether she had thought through this small impediment.

“Some of the accents around here are so incomprehensible that I don’t think my own will be that noticeable,” Meg said. “But I’ll disguise any English twang with mumbles and monosyllables. It’s not that difficult to pick out a couple of horses with staying power, pay for them, and arrange to pick them up at first light without entering into a long conversation.”

“Keep the cap low over your eyes, use a lot of gestures, and we’ll need a packhorse as well as the riding horses,” Cosimo instructed briskly, counting the points on his fingers. “Don’t pay more than twenty livres per riding horse, and no more than ten for the packhorse.” He counted out coins into her palm. “Be back here in two hours at the latest, Meg. When you leave the inn, turn to your right and you’ll find the livery stables in a side alley about a quarter of a mile away.”

“That sounds simple enough,” she said with a confidence she wasn’t sure she felt. She tossed the coins in the palm of her hand. “Until later then.” She raised her face for a kiss.

“Until later.” Cosimo kissed her, lingered for a second on the sweetness of her lips, then turned and left her, saying over his shoulder, “Two hours, Meg. Not a second longer.”

She stood for a minute looking at the door he’d left ajar. She had no mirror to familiarize herself with her adjusted appearance. It was more than a little strange to go out on the street, negotiate for horses, without having a real sense of what she looked like.

But it was all part of the adventure. Meg thrust the coins into the pocket of her britches and ventured forth onto the lanes of Cadillac. She found the livery stable without difficulty and was greeted not by the man she’d expected but by a smiling, apple-cheeked woman who very quickly made it clear that she knew as much about horseflesh and doing business as any man around.