For Your Arms Only (13 page)

He had a large book open on the desk. When he beckoned to her with one hand, she hurried back to his side in relief. He leaned his head close to hers and murmured, “Say something.”

“What?” She had trouble speaking. His lips had almost brushed her skin, his words skimming her cheek like a lover’s murmur.

“Keep talking as if to him.” He jerked his head in Mr. Prenner’s direction. “The long silence will be suspicious if anyone comes by the door.”

“Oh.” Cressida wet her lips. “Mr. Prenner,” she began in her normal voice, “it really is imperative that you tell me anything you know about my father. Not only have we been quite worried about his absence, but the people in the government have begun asking questions…” She was babbling, saying anything that crossed her mind while she watched the major’s finger skim down a column of names and payments. “Turner” leaped out at her, then again. The major didn’t say anything, just tapped his fingertip on the entries to call them to her attention. Cressida nodded each time he did so, noting the date and the sum beside the name. Mr. Prenner had paid Papa a good amount of money, at regular intervals, even more than indicated in Papa’s ledger. But it didn’t say why…until the major turned back a page to previous entries, dated more than two years ago. One line contained a single extra word: lithos.

Lithographs
, Cressida mouthed. What lithographs?

The major, looking intently at her, gave a slight shrug. He turned a few more pages, but no more entries with Papa’s name turned up. With a glance at the door, he closed the ledger and put it away, silently sliding the drawer closed once more. “Time to go.”

Cressida nodded immediately. “Then good day to you, sir!” she said loudly to the unconscious Mr. Prenner. The major, already by the door, opened it for her and she rushed out, feeling as though every eye in the shop must be trained her way.

Perhaps it was. The clerk who had showed them in appeared in front of her with a smile that looked menacing to Cressida’s nervous eyes. “May I show you out, madam?”

She could feel the color in her face. The major, hovering at her side just in her range of vision, bowed his head slightly. She was supposed to say yes, even though the man’s eyes made her skin crawl and the thick air of the print shop was suffocating her. “Yes, please. I feel a little faint.”

“This way.” He swept out his arm and Cressida followed, pressing her handkerchief to her face. The major didn’t make a sound behind her. They were drawing the man away from Mr. Prenner’s office, so he didn’t go inside at once and find Mr. Prenner knocked out cold. She understood, and appreciated why, but when they stepped into the street and the door was closed behind them, she drew in a long, shaky breath.

“Bloody hell!”

H
er curse amused him. She could see the curve of his mouth as they walked, and she didn’t care. She was more shaken than she cared to admit by the visit, and took refuge in fury. “Of all the insufferable—” She stopped and rounded on him. “Did you know?” she demanded. “Did you
know
he would be so—so awful?”

“No.” His smile grew a little wider. “I did suspect.”

“Oh—oh!” She could hardly speak. “That rat! That weasel!”

“Both at the same time?” He took her arm to propel her through the street. She let him, still seething.

“Yes! If I had a torch, I’d set his hateful little shop ablaze.”

“We could light it on our way out of town,” Alec said mildly.

“I am very tempted. I wish I had never laid eyes on that place.”

He grinned. “What a turnaround. I should go back and thank Mr. Prenner for convincing you of that when I failed so completely.”

“Oh, stop!”

He just laughed. Cressida knew he had earned that laugh at her expense, but she was still shaking with temper and nerves so she just strode on. He was so calm, so unruffled; he had assaulted a man! And very neatly, too. Cressida could only glance at him from time to time in mingled shock and admiration and a tiny bit of envy. She certainly would have liked to punch Mr. Prenner herself.

He caught her looking at him and raised one eyebrow. “All right?”

She jerked her eyes to the front. “Fine.” From the corner of her eye she could see he was still grinning.

He left her at the inn, saying he had an errand to run before dinner. Cressida went up to her room and stared out her window at the busy London scenery for a long time. She hardly knew what to think about this. Papa had been in business with that wretched Prenner, selling lithographs of some sort. She could see why he hadn’t told them, especially if the lithographs in question looked anything like the other prints in Prenner’s shop. Perhaps it shouldn’t surprise her. Papa had a habit of drawing little cartoons on the rare letter he sent home, all rendered with a sharp eye for humor. When he came home, he would always draw miniatures of her and Callie to take with him on campaign. She didn’t think Mr. Prenner was paying for sketches of rabbits and birds, though, nor of her and Callie.

Cressida sighed. Perhaps nothing she learned about Papa should surprise her. He had been more absent than home in her life; until he’d left the army three years ago, he hadn’t spent more than a few consecutive weeks at home with them since Cressida was a small child. Most of her perception of him had been born of her grandmother’s stories, and Granny thought Papa the cleverest, noblest, most amiable man on earth. On furlough Papa was jovial and kind, always laughing and full of ideas, with sweets in his pockets for his little girls and a gift for his mother. Cressida had adored her father as a princely figure who whirled through her life from time to time, but she could hardly say she knew him.

The last few years had shaded her adoration somewhat, or else she had seen him with new eyes once she was grown. She still saw Papa’s charm, but also his quick temper and extravagance. He was bluff and brash, and couldn’t seem to understand why Callie was quiet and reserved. Perhaps they were just as strange to him as he was to them, she thought. It was easy to retain the affections of two little girls, especially with Granny singing his praises every night he was gone, but two grown women were apt to be more critical and difficult to please. Callie had survived a bitter marriage and come home quieter than ever, and Cressida had grown into the practical head of the household as Granny’s mind began to slip. Papa came home as charming and energetic as ever, but they were not the same, not waiting with clasped hands and bated breath for him to swagger down the lane to their tiny house with his pack on one shoulder. Just as Papa was not used to being at home, they were not used to having him home.

Somewhere in the city a bell tolled the hour. The shadows in the street below had slanted until everything was tinged with gray, although the sky was still bright. It was near dinnertime. The major had engaged a private parlor, and would be waiting for her.

Cressida washed her face and hands. There was another man she couldn’t make out, although at least in this instance she had the excuse of not knowing him for long. By some accounts he was a traitor and a liar, a man who went missing for five years and then just returned without a word of explanation. Gossip in Marston held that he must have been engaged in illegal activity during that time, with everything from piracy to swindling to murder mentioned, and that he was being quiet to avoid being sent to the gallows for it. There was certainly something dark about him, but Cressida didn’t think that it was dangerous. She couldn’t forget how he had stood his ground at the muzzle of a pistol, nor how he returned the next day and said not a word of confrontation or reproof. The major, she thought, was very sure of himself and had clearly mastered his emotions. It made his actions today all the more surprising—had he simply lost patience with Mr. Prenner’s rude manner, or was it calculated? From the calm way he went about searching the office, even telling her to keep talking to avoid raising the clerk’s suspicion, she suspected it had been entirely calculated. And she could only imagine what he might have done had she not been there.

Cressida felt very conscious of him when she went down to the private parlor. A hearty dinner was laid on the table, and the innkeeper smiled and bowed to her as he herded the serving maid out of the room ahead of him. The door closed, leaving her alone with him. She pressed her palms to her skirt and cleared her throat. Out of nowhere she remembered that he had asked her to call him Alec, but she had never done so yet.

He sat on a bench beside the fireplace, a stack of papers on the floor at his feet. He was frowning at one in his hands. “I believe I’ve found the lithographs,” he said without looking up. “They are signed ‘GT,’ at any rate, and were published not long after the payments.”

“How on earth did you locate them?” She crossed the room to take the print he held out.

“I asked about,” he said vaguely, sliding over to make room for her. The bench was short, and even though she sat primly on the end, his knee still brushed hers. He had washed; she could smell his soap and see his close-cropped hair glistening damply. She bent her head over the print studiously and told herself not to think of it, or him, or how intoxicating this strange intimacy was.

“Good heavens,” was all she could say. “Are they all like this?”

“You needn’t look,” he said, reaching for the print.

“Are they?” She clung to it, feeling slightly nauseous. She had seen outrageous prints before, but surely it was dangerous to draw such things—and she was uneasily certain her father had drawn this image. The King was portrayed as a fat sow, and the piglets suckling at his teats had the faces of Cabinet ministers. A gaunt John Bull figure slopped the pig with a bucket of coins. For the first time since her father had gone missing, Cressida was seriously frightened. Could Papa go to prison for this?

“I doubt it,” he said, and she realized she had blurted out her last question. “It’s no worse than what some are selling, although he’d be wise not to boast of it in certain parts of town.”

“The rest are just as bad, aren’t they?” She let him take the sheet from her lax fingers. “What was Papa thinking?”

“Money.” He leaned down to collect all the prints from the floor. She caught sight of another one with the King, again corpulent and drunken-looking, surrounded by nearly naked, equally fat women, dancing and vomiting on a carpet woven of men in army uniforms. She looked away, chewing the inside of her cheek in worry.

“What might happen to him?”

“Libel is difficult to prosecute, and going after one man would only draw excess attention to his lithographs. The government has been mocked more harshly than this and done nothing except bribe the printer not to sell the offending prints.” He put the prints into a leather satchel and set it aside.

“Then what have we discovered?” she asked bitterly. “That my father despises the government? That he dealt with a shifty, mean little printer to profit from his dislike? But none of that would endanger him, you say, so what has this gained us? We still don’t know where he went or where he is!”

“It’s a piece of the puzzle,” he said quietly. “One small mystery solved. I have learned not to overlook any piece, no matter how small, just because I can’t see what it means.”

She dashed the angry tears from her eyes before they could fall. Of course he was right. “I hoped so desperately Mr. Prenner would know something, but that was silly, wasn’t it? I should have known this trip wasn’t vital, and not insisted on coming along.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “No one knew what it would yield.”

“You did. You told me I needn’t come and it would be dull. You even warned me we might discover something unpleasant.” Her gaze slid over to the portfolio of lithographs. Her fingers itched to throw the whole collection into the fire; a pointless impulse, but a strong one.

“You are too harsh on yourself.”

“I am trying to admit I was wrong, and you were correct,” she said dryly. “My sister would advise you to revel in my humble admission, because I do not make them often.”

He laughed. “I doubt right and wrong are so clearly divided. It might just as well have turned out the other way round.”

She doubted that. She knew he doubted it, too, and was just being kind. Today’s events had demonstrated quite clearly that the major knew what he was doing far better than she did. “What is the Dove’s Nest?”

He sobered. “A brothel.”

Cressida shuddered. “I feared as much.” She remembered his remark about the prison. “Have you already…?”

“No. I will go inquire, if you would like—”

“No!” She blushed again. “But thank you for telling me honestly. I do appreciate it, Major.”

“Alec.” He turned his head to look at her. They were still sitting on the narrow bench, so close she could see every flicker of firelight reflected in the deep blue pools of his eyes. “Don’t call me Major.”

“Oh,” she said, flustered. “I don’t know…”

“Please,” he murmured, in the same voice he had used in the printer’s office when his lips had almost touched her cheek as he whispered in her ear. His gaze flicked to her mouth for a moment, and Cressida’s heart nearly stopped at the sudden wish, strong and sharp, that he would lean forward the last few inches and kiss her. She sat, paralyzed by shock at her own longings and quaking with apprehension. Just because he looked at her like that didn’t mean…anything, she told herself frantically. But if it did mean something, whispered a little voice in her heart, and if he did kiss her…she would enjoy it very much.

“All right,” she whispered, barely able to form the words. “If you wish…Alec.”

Alec inhaled at the husky way she said his name. Perhaps he shouldn’t kiss her, but he most certainly
could
, and she would kiss him back. Her glorious eyes were dark with desire and yearning; she wanted him to kiss her. They were alone together, not just in London or in this room but in this short respite from their cares and duties at home. Tonight he could forget his responsibilities, and he could make Cressida forget hers. He
wanted
to forget everything tonight—except her. She was everything he was not, the antithesis of all he had become. She wasn’t used to sneaking around, and when he’d rattled up Prenner, she’d gone as white as a sheet. But she hadn’t screamed or fainted or made a word of protest, and when she erupted in a temper as they walked away, he’d found it entrancing. Arousing, even. And now…She sat waiting, poised in expectation. He felt his body bend toward hers; he saw her mouth soften, heard her breathing accelerate, and Alec’s blood surged in anticipation.

A knock sounded on the door. She jerked backward, a blush flooding her cheeks. Alec silently cursed. “Yes?” he called out, resigned.

The innkeeper put his head around the door. “Beg pardon, sir, the girl forgot to bring the wine you ordered. I’ve brought it right up.”

“Excellent,” he said wryly. “Thank you.” He turned to Cressida as the innkeeper brought in the wine and then hurried back out. “Shall we have dinner?”

“Yes.” She gave him a rueful smile, her color still high. She had remembered herself; they both had. But awareness of that moment, when they had stood on the brink of forgetting, still echoed in the air like the fading vibration of a plucked string. Alec could feel it on his skin as he pulled out a chair at the table for her. She sat stiffly, holding her body away from any contact with his, and he knew she felt it, too.

The food was plain but still warm, and they ate in silence for a while. Alec guessed from Cressida’s expression that her thoughts had turned back to their reason for being in London. He almost regretted that; as much as he knew her family was depending on George Turner’s return, he hated to see the worry and cold disillusionment creep back into her eyes, banishing the hot glow of longing. He wanted to see that glow again, and not in some chance, reckless moment.

“Why did you knock out Mr. Prenner?” she finally asked.

“Ought I not to have done so?”

“Oh no, you were very right to have done so. He’s a rat.”

“And a weasel,” he murmured.

She tried and failed to hide her smile. “He
is
. And I’m not sorry you struck him, I just wondered why you resorted to that so quickly.”

“I thought of doing it the moment I saw him. My restraint in waiting as long as I did is quite admirable, in my opinion.”

“I’ve long wondered why Lord Hastings sent you to help us.” She laid down her fork and knife to regard him levelly. “You said it must be due to your particular talents—I presume you meant punching people unconscious and stealing horses.”

Alec chuckled. She was sharp as a pin, this one. “Do you remember every last word I’ve ever said to you, with the hope of someday using it against me?”

“No!” Indignation made her blush. But then, much did, and she had the fair complexion to show off the color in her cheeks to its best advantage. He liked watching the wave of pink roll up her face, and couldn’t help thinking of other ways to make the color bloom under her skin. “You have asked me to explain and relate everything about my father, yet told me very little about yourself and how you plan to proceed. One day you say you’ve come to search through Papa’s papers, then to say we’re off to London to see a printer.”