Mary Blayney (29 page)

He reached over and wiped away a tear that was trickling down her cheek.

“I have known more gentlemen than you can count and you are the first that I would trust with my life.” Drawing in a deep breath, Lynette let go of despair. It felt wonderful.

She shifted slightly so that he could put his arm around her. She relaxed against him and he pulled her cloak around them both as they lay back down again, this time in each other’s arms.

“The stars really are lovely,” she said. “I do not need to know anything about them to feel one with them.”

“They are nowhere near as lovely as you are.” She raised her head so she could see into his eyes, and kissed him. “You shine so brightly that you are all I can see.” He kissed her.

H
ER LIPS WERE LIKE
the rest of Lynette Gilray, soft and welcoming with a touch of spice that came to him in the way she pressed herself to him and the soft sounds of pleasure she made.

“Thank you,” she said when they were both almost breathless.

For what?
he thought. “I will be happy to do it again.” Even as he gathered her close she whispered against his lips, “For giving me tomorrow.” This kiss was sweeter, and made perfect when she said, “I love you.”

They lay for a long time. Just holding each other, for his part wishing for a bed. No, not yet. He had to tell her what he had been thinking about before she came.

“Lynette, I do not think I want to study astronomy any longer. I cannot see it as a way to honor Dr. Borgos’s wish, even if it was his field.”

“You have come up with another idea.”

“Yes. I want to study anatomy again, human physiology. To make a contribution as significant as Vesalius. Much has changed since Vesalius wrote his masterpiece. In his studies William Harvey learned immense amounts about how the heart functions, facts that make some of Vesalius’s drawings obsolete.”

“Yes, Dr. Schotzko pointed them out to me.”

“I was thinking that, if you would like to, we could work together to prepare a new set of drawings, with the latest information available. I know several publishers who would be interested.”

She pulled away from him. “You are not saying this to humor me?”

“God, no, most certainly not. Ask Jessup, my interest in physiology far surpasses my interest in astronomy. The stars were a hobby I indulged in until my father could come to his senses. He never did, but his passing ends the wait.” He propped himself up on his elbow.

“Do I sound unfeeling?” Before she could answer he went on. “He was so much more concerned about how the world would see my actions. Making a contribution to science meant nothing to him. I am sad he is gone, but my life will be the fuller for it.”

“If you are serious, I will do it,” she said, nodding enthusiastically. “It will fulfill Dr. Borgos’s urging you to make the world a better place, will it not?”

“I hope so.” That story had been one of the first he had told her. Did she realize that even then her heart had been touched?

“First though, Gabriel, I must fulfill my commission for Dr. Schotzko and the other work if he wishes. It will be good practice for our own project.”

He did not want to diminish the enthusiasm radiating from her, but felt compelled to be honest. “Our project will be nothing like his, but it will give both of us knowledge about what the other knows.”

“I suppose you could assist me on Dr. Schotzko’s project.” She considered it a moment longer then nodded. “That is, if you accept that you are only in charge of the science.”

“It seems to me I learned to follow your lead in a very hard school.” He laughed. “Now I see that even that will prove useful.”

They kissed, but the air had cooled so much that anything more than kisses was something only a fool would consider. “It is a very good thing that there is no bed in your studio and your window seat is only big enough for one.”

“Gabriel, surely you realize that a bed is hardly a requirement. I will be delighted to educate you.”

That she would tease him with her past was the finest gift she could give. He kissed her and in one fluid motion stood up, took her hand and pulled her to her feet and into his arms.

“I knew that I was not a true astronomer when I realized that this next moment means more to me than all the stars in the sky.” As he spoke, Gabriel put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face the first light of day. Lynette leaned against him. The sky warmed from gray to rose to gold. They stayed in that one place until the sun blinded them.

In the smallest of movements Lynette turned her head to him. “This is tomorrow,” she said, her face lit with a smile that could easily be called laughter. “And it is all ours.”

“This moment is blessing and commitment.” Gabriel kissed her temple, kissed her smile. “Someday I would like the church’s blessing, when you are ready and our children insist.” That made her giggle, a sound that bewitched him. “Until then, Lynette, love is enough.”

Author’s Note

Illuminated transparent images were a popular art form from the middle of the eighteenth century to the middle of the nineteenth century. They were created in different mediums, among them glass, paper and cloth by artists like Gainsborough, Daguerre and Turner.

My heroine, Lynette, explored the form in cut-paper as did many of her amateur contemporaries. Most of their efforts were done in the form of silhouettes that were pasted into albums. Landscape views, like the Le Havre harbor scene, represent a talent beyond the average.

My first experience with cut-paper transparencies was at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. Several visits later I am even more impressed with the talent of the unknown artist who made the cut-paper silhouettes that comprise the forty-two pieces in the Met collection. Known only as “Aunt Sophy,” she probably lived in East Yorkshire during the first quarter of the nineteenth century.

My thanks to Dr. Elizabeth Barker for introducing me to the work, sharing her knowledge and sparking a significant part of Lynette’s story.

The work
De Humani Corporis Fabrica
by Vesalius is one of those amazing bits of science that are equally incredible work of art. If you would like a good look at Vesalius’s work, it is available online, including a turn-the-page version, a project developed by the National Library of Medicine. I first discovered
De Humani Corporis Fabrica
at the National Library of Medicine at the National Institutes of Health. Thank you to Betsy Tunis for making that possible.

Thanks also to Dr. Meg Grasselli at the National Gallery of Art for her assistance with French translation. I knew the simpler phrases, but “English pig” and “filthy traitor” were not covered in my high school French class.

As always, endless thanks to the Beau Monde Chapter of Romance Writers of America and to my writing group, Marsha Nuccio, Elaine Fox and Lavinia Klein.

One last note. Gradsbourg is a fictitious European country and Lord Richard Selwick, the man who went to Egypt with Napoleon in the name of science, is the creation of Lauren Willing in her charming book
The Secret History of the Pink Carnation
. We both agreed it would be fun to have our versions of the Regency mingle. In that world, I trust Gabriel will eventually find out that Lord Richard was a spy. In every other respect, I have done my best to accurately reflect the history of the time.

Lover’s Kiss

To Ann and Deanie
The best of sisters
and
my best friends.

1

THE PEAK DISTRICT
DERBYSHIRE
APRIL
1816

M
ICHAEL
G
ARRETT SLOWED HIS HORSE
to a stop. Pulling off his gloves he put a hand on his pistol, his eyes fixed on the drift of snow twenty yards ahead.

A last touch of winter, mottled shades of white, banked against a fallen tree. Yes, spring had been slow in coming. God knew it was cold enough for patches of snow to outlast the calendar.

But snow did not move.

There were no bears or wolves, not in England. As he watched, his gun at the ready, something struggled to rise from the sheltered spot.

The bank of snow became a woman.

A naked woman. Michael holstered his gun as the ghostly figure glided away deeper into the morning mist rising through the copse of trees.

“Dear God in heaven,” he prayed, urging his horse forward. She was no vision or ghost. The woman was as solid as the branches that slapped her face as she moved deeper into the trees.

She was in trouble. Terrible trouble. Her white flesh was covered with dirt as if she’d spent days wandering the forest. Five minutes ago he had been on his way to Manchester. It appeared that his plans had just changed.

“Are you lost?” he called out.

With a sound that was not human, she tried to run. After no more than ten feet she staggered and collapsed, falling to the ground with brutal momentum.

She could be running from him. Or from someone else. Michael stopped his horse again. With the fog wet against his face, he concentrated, listening for sight or sound of another person. The heavy quiet added to the mystery, but he heard nothing, sensed nothing.

To hell with caution.
She was a woman in distress, not a French agent. He dismounted and ran the last few feet as though three seconds would make a difference.

Michael came upon her sprawled facedown in the dirt. She was not quite naked but wearing a thin shift. Despite her very short hair there was no doubt of her sex. The linen was wet and clung to the curve of her back, the robust shape of her hips.

Squatting down, Michael turned her over. She felt brittle, like a fallen leaf that had lost all its color. Despite the steady movement of her chest Michael wondered if nature had already won. If she was so cold that it would be impossible to warm her enough to save her life.

Helping her could well bring him the kind of trouble he was doing his best to avoid. Even as he lifted her, he considered the idea.

If she was mad, she would not thank him for the rescue. If she was lost, she might be grateful. If she was worse than lost, thrown like rubbish and left for dead, someone might take issue with his efforts. Rescuers were not always heroes. A hard-learned truth, courtesy of Napoleon’s war.

He swore halfheartedly, disgusted that he gave any thought to leaving her. Even if she was facing death she deserved better than to be left to the animals.

As he held her, she moved. Michael hoped that she was waking up, but her eyes remained closed. The movement was no more than a convulsive shudder. It was a perverse relief that she still could shiver, that her body was not so cold it was shutting down completely.

Energy replaced confusion. Action suited him better than uncertainty. He stood up, looking about for a way to warm her quickly.

The fallen tree would do. The side facing south would give them shelter and sun. The spring sun, though weak, would be better than clouds and rain. He would wrap her in his greatcoat and build a fire.

He could wish it was warmer, but if he wished for that why not wish for a house to appear with help at hand? He would deal with what he had; improvising had been a way of life for years.

Sliding his arm under her shoulders and his other arm under her knees, Michael lifted her. As he did, her head lolled back, exposing her neck to the morning light. He stood up abruptly when he saw the nasty, purpling bruises on her throat. It made his own ache in sympathy.

“I am in England,” he whispered, closing his eyes. This woman was not much more than a girl. He knew well that youth did not guarantee innocence, but he did not want to consider what she had done to earn such vengeance and be left for dead.

Michael set her down on the ground in the shelter of the fallen tree, then spread his coat in the hollow.

Bending over her he watched her short shivering breaths. Keep breathing, he begged.

He was about to lift her into his arms again when he realized that the wet shift was adding to her chill. Thinking only of her survival, he ripped the fabric away. Her sweet body was not a girl’s, but a woman’s. Ignoring the rush of awareness, he looked for bruises or evidence of brutality. There were none, only the bruises on her neck. Nor was there any blood.

It was awkward but he settled her on his coat in the recess, wrapping the voluminous wool around her, covering her feet and tucking the fabric tightly. He watched her as he gathered wood. One thing was for sure; he would not know any more until she told him.

A naked woman didn’t give many clues to her identity.

An
unconscious
naked woman even fewer.

He hoped that the memories hinted at by her bruised throat were not as sordid as the injury, that she wouldn’t hate him for saving her life.

It didn’t matter what she thought. Helping her was a purely selfish act. A way to convince himself that he had some humanity left. Saving a life was a good place to begin. He let out a breath of laughter. Saving someone who would rather be dead would be an ironic quirk of fate.

He built the fire with the efficiency of long practice. When he was done, he came close and crouched beside her. She would warm more quickly if his body was next to hers. It would be even more effective if his naked body was next to hers, but there was more than one reason that was a bad idea. If someone were to find them, nudity would leave him at a decided disadvantage.

Even if no one found them, the two of them naked was an invitation to trouble which was as far as he would allow his imagination to go. She was at death’s door. Had been brutalized in ways he had yet to learn. He was not going to add to that even in his thoughts.

Unwrapping her and rewrapping both of them in his greatcoat was a clumsy process. She was completely limp, her fingers and toes blue with cold. He arranged her body as if she were a life-sized doll and cradled her head in the crook of his shoulder. Her hair smelled like cinnamon and spices, an odd perfume but as comforting as it was appealing.

The next step would have to wait until she was conscious. He would take her home, of course. But if home wasn’t an option he was at a loss.

He could hear his colonel’s voice deep in his memory, damn him, insisting that preparation was pointless unless you had some sense of the enemy’s purpose. The colonel had been a gross caricature of an officer, but in this one thing the man had been right. Before anything else, Michael would need to know who was friend and who was foe and where they were.

Not here, he was sure of that. There were no sounds of humans in the area, no twigs broken or leaves crunched. He’d been watching before and seen no sign of anyone else on horseback.

Pulling his hand out from under their covering, he found his gun deep in the pocket of the greatcoat. He laid it on the ground behind her where he could reach it easily, but it would not alarm her.

Michael began to pick away the small pieces of leaf and bark on her face. Her long eyelashes lay heavily on her pale, almost blue cheeks. Her lips were full, her nose short and determined, her ears—. Oh hell, the woman was freezing to death and he was trying to find a word to describe her ears. “Fragile shells” popped into his head and he swore out loud.

Despite the fragile shells and long eyelashes, someone wanted her to be lost and never found. She could be a prostitute who’d irritated a customer, a thief who had stolen from the wrong person or a lady’s maid who had asked for more than her wellborn lover was willing to give.

He could see where she would be well nigh irresistible. Youth and lush curves would draw male attention whether she spent her time in the servant’s quarters or the salon.

Distract yourself, Michael. She is more a wounded animal than a woman.
He shifted her so that she was not pressing against him so suggestively.

She stirred a little and did nothing to ease that discomfort when she moved closer, pressing her face into his neck, her soft brown curls tickling his chin.

Leaning back, he raised his head and watched the breeze stir the budding branches as the sun rose completely. There was no moment but this one. In the slanting rays of dawn he could see flittering insects he never would have noticed. Sitting so still he could hear his horse nibbling grass, some small animal chittering a message. A bird flew by carrying a twig to its nest.

He shouldn’t have fallen asleep but he did, dreaming an odd assortment of scenes, most of them erotic, involving a wood nymph who claimed his heart and shared her world of pleasure, light, happiness. She shared her body and her mind without hesitation and at last offered him her heart. He took it and dropped it, by accident or on purpose, he was not sure. It broke nonetheless and all she could do was stare at him as she began to fade away.

A rusty whisper roused him from his half-sleep. He guessed it was midday. It was cloudy now and there was no sun to use as a timepiece.

Michael could see that she was waking. Good. He was chilled through. He needed to add more wood to the fire.

She began to struggle, pressing her hands into his chest, trying to push her body away from his. That she had any strength at all amazed him. The panic he felt in her struggles made him realize that the rusty whisper was all the screaming she was capable of.

He held her still, hoping he was not bruising her more. “You’re safe. I have you safe,” he spoke softly. “I rescued you.” She would not listen or could not hear through her terror. That she would not surrender to him, seemed intent on escape, made him rethink what had happened to her. Very possibly something worse than the bruises on her throat.

He repeated his words in a stronger voice. She paused for a moment and he thought he had reached her. As he relaxed his grip, she raised her foot and tried to unman him. Her aim was off and she only bruised his thigh. Pushing his greatcoat off her shoulders she aimed for his eyes with her hand curled into a claw. He grabbed her fingers and held them with his one free hand. Her other hand was pressed against him and he held her as tightly as he could, in a mockery of an embrace.

All in silence now, the only sound her ragged breathing and rusty screams.

“I will not let you go. You have no clothes. It is cold; you will die before you find safety.”

As she raised her eyes to his, he saw the promise that he would die with her. God help him, he had to convince her.

It was Troy who calmed her. His horse came toward them and nudged the girl’s head with her nose. Why it worked Michael had no idea, but the girl stilled her breathless struggles.

“I found you here in the woods,” he explained. “You needed help.”

She made no answer. The shivers were gone but fear had her as tense as a bowstring.

“I found you…” he said again. Before he said more she made a noise that was close to “Yes,” and raised a hand to her throat.

“It looks like someone tried to strangle you. You will have bruises for awhile.”

She nodded, her eyes glistening with tears.

“Did you escape?”

“I woke up.” Her voice was as much a whisper as her screams had been.

“You woke up. You mean you were asleep?” That argued for a prostitute at odds with her customer or a lover tired of her demands.

“Not asleep. Drugged.” She drew in a deep breath that became a quivering sob.

Were you raped?
Why ask. It hardly mattered. She had been grossly violated in some way. He did not need to add to her torment. Instead he asked the most pressing question of all.

“Were you followed? Will they be trying to find you?”