The Bride Wore Scarlet (10 page)

“But you will you go with me?” asked Lazonby. “As your brother's representative, since he has left for India? Right now Napier feels a debt to your family—perhaps even a little shame. And he found you intriguing. He won't toss me out on my ear quite so quickly if you're with me.”

Anisha rolled her eyes. “What about Lucan? Mightn't he go?”

Lazonby laughed. “Your younger brother has no gravitas, my dear,” he said, “and you are—if you will pardon the expression—twice the man he can ever hope to be.”

“Nonsense,” she snapped. “He is just a boy—and a rake in the making, yes, but I shall attend to that in time. But very well, I concede he won't do.”

“And . . . ?”

Anisha exhaled on another great sigh. “Choose the day, then,” she said. “I shall do it—but it will cost you something dear.”

“A pound of flesh, eh, Shylock?” he said, cutting a grin at her.

“It might feel like more than a pound,” she said, her spine set rigidly straight. “On Saturday night, in recompense, you will accompany me to the opera.”

“To the opera?” he said, horrified. “But I don't like the opera. I don't even
understand
it.”

“It is Donizetti's
L'elisir d'Amore
,” she said tartly. “And it's simple. They fall in love, there's a big misunderstanding, a magical elixir, and then they both—”

“—die tragically?” Lazonby flatly suggested. “And I'm just hazarding a wild guess here.”

Her eyes flashed warningly. “Rance, must you be so boorish?”

Lord Lazonby laughed. “Or does just one of them die, leaving the other brokenhearted?” he suggested. “Or perhaps they accidentally poison one another? Or stab one another? And all of it sung, no less, and in some obscure language no reasonable chap would understand?”

Anisha's eyes glittered. “Oh, for pity's sake, you do not need to understand it!” she gritted. “You need to put on a proper frock coat and present yourself in Upper Grosvenor Street at seven sharp. Lady Madeleine needs another gentleman to even out her numbers—and
you are it!
”

“Ah, well!” said Lazonby softly. “Another deal with the devil for old Rance!”

Chapter 6

In general, the Tao of the invader is this: When the troops have penetrated deeply, they will be unified.

Sun Tzu,
The Art of War

T
he
Jolie Marie
sailed from Ramsgate's Royal Harbor just after dawn in the wake of the morning's first mail packet. The captain, Thibeaux, was the son of an elderly French Savant who had served the
Fraternitas
well for many decades, and survived France's turmoils with his head intact. Like all the Brotherhood's Savants, the elder Thibeaux was a man of great learning; an astronomer and mathematician by trade.

By Thibeaux's estimation, the journey across the North Sea was expected to take something less than two days, and Geoff had ordered him to run fully rigged.

The trouble started, however, as soon as the Kentish cliffs disappeared from the horizon—which, given the wind, didn't take long. Anaïs, who had remained fixed at the aft railing staring at Ramsgate, began to pace the deck from stem to stern as soon as the shoreline vanished, her shawl and her hems whipping wildly about her, and it took no special gift—psychic or otherwise—to sense her disquiet. Though
disquiet
, perhaps, was not quite the right word.

Twice in passing he suggested she go below, but Anaïs shook her head. She was regretting her impetuous decision, Geoff feared. Though they had seen no one known to either of them through the whole of the previous day, the harsh reality of what she had chosen to do was likely sinking in on her now.

He had wondered—but not permitted himself the satisfaction of asking—just what she'd told her family. Obviously Maria Vittorio knew she had left England again, even if her parents did not. Quite likely her brother knew it, too.

That could prove unpleasant.

But an impetuous pup like Armand de Rohan could be dealt with in time—if it became necessary. And her brother's disposition, rash or otherwise, had nothing to do with Anaïs's present mood. The truth was, she had been distant all morning, even to the point of refusing the breakfast he had arranged in the inn's private parlor. And oddly, Geoff had found himself a little rankled by it.

He had set out on this journey trying to avoid her, it was true. The whole of his mind, he had told himself, needed to be focused on the task before him, and not on the seductive turn of his partner's backside. Watching her climb in and out of the carriage and smile at his servants at every stop along the drive from London had driven him to distraction. And he was not a man easily distracted.

But during their walk up from the harbor the previous evening, with their arms linked loosely together, Geoff had somehow begun to see more than that lovely backside. He had felt, fleetingly, as if he had glimpsed her equally lovely
inside
.

Those virtuous notions notwithstanding, however, it was not her fine character his mind had turned to when at last he'd stripped himself naked and crawled into bed last night, saddle-weary and much conflicted. No, it was that wide, mobile mouth of hers. That husky laugh which seemed to bubble up from deep inside, then catch provocatively in her throat. Those hot brown eyes and that riotous tangle of black hair that seemed ever on the verge of tumbling down.

He watched her now as she strolled along the deck of the
Jolie Marie
, tendrils of inky hair curling wildly from the damp, and he couldn't help but imagine having it down about her breasts and plunging his hands into it. And it made him wish to the devil he'd drawn that last inch of his draperies closed last night. Or that his bed had sat under the window instead of directly opposite. Or even better, that he'd gone down to the taproom and got himself thoroughly sotted. For Anaïs, it seemed, was a bit of a night owl. Her lamp had remained lit until well past midnight.

For a time, he had merely watched her silhouette, long and graceful as it passed back and forth by her window, while he wondered what she was doing awake at such an hour. And then he wondered why he cared. She was not his type. She was young—younger and a good deal more innocent than the sort of female who ordinarily captured his imagination.

Bessett preferred experienced women who knew the game; lush, mature women with no pretense to romance and few expectations. And for that absence of finer feelings, he was willing to pay handsomely—though he rarely had to.

No, Anaïs was not for him, but capture his imagination she inexplicably had. And so he had found himself fixated upon a mere shadow, fantasizing about her even as he stroked himself, seeking satisfaction—or something akin to it—in the basest of ways. Tipping his head back into the softness of his pillow, he had thought about that hair, and breathed in the memory of her scent. And no, it was not her inner beauty that had driven him, or remained with him as he'd cried out with his release.

Even then, however, the lust inside him had not stilled.

He should have remembered his original vow—that he did not need to know the woman in order to work with her. He needed to know only that they shared the same concern for the child whom they had been sent to protect. That should have been enough. But now, as he watched her turn and make her way up the length of the deck again, Geoff felt the bite of dissatisfaction like a blackfly at the back of his neck.

And it was remotely possible she sensed it. Possible, really, that she knew a vast deal about his innermost thoughts and longings. Though it was true that those with the Gift—even a hint of it—could not read one another, there were always subtleties and layers.

Of course, as so many amongst them did, Anaïs had minimized her skill. But he'd heard the same sort of denials out of Rance, and even Lady Anisha, Ruthveyn's sister. And while it was true that few were as accursed with the Gift as he and Ruthveyn, Geoff could not escape the suspicion that a great many people took care to hide the truth.

Well, if she knew, so be it. He was a man, with a man's desires—and she would do well to remember it.

But he lost that train of thought when she paused near the hatch to seize hold of the railing, staring intently starboard as if France might magically materialize from that chalybeous infinity of water and sky. She leaned so far forward that, for an instant, he wondered if she meant to pitch herself headfirst into the churning water and swim for Calais.

But what nonsense. Anaïs de Rohan was far too sensible for that.

He relaxed, one hand upon the mast for balance, and let his gaze drift over her. She was dressed today in dark green, another of her eminently practical gowns, the simplicity of which merely served to emphasize the lean elegance of her figure. She had curves enough to please a man, he noticed, but no more, and he found himself wishing he'd looked at her a little more purposefully that night in the St. James Club. He should have liked to have a clearer memory of those small, perfect breasts to help him ease the torment at night.

In another life, he supposed, Anaïs de Rohan might have been a dancer, or an exclusive courtesan, perhaps, for though she was right in saying she was not a beauty, she fairly exuded earthly charm and celestial grace.

Just now, however, she looked neither charming nor graceful.

She looked like she was about to heave her entrails over the rail.

He had left his post by the mainmast and was hastening toward her before he fully grasped what had drawn him. By the time he reached her, Anaïs's knuckles were bloodless upon the railing, her face as pale as parchment.

He set a hand at her spine and leaned over her. “Anaïs, what is it?”

She turned her head to look up at him with a wan smile. “Merely a little
mal de mer
,” she said. “I sometimes suffer with it.”

He set his arm loosely at the small of her back. “So that's what's wrong,” he said, almost to himself. “Look, you should go below and lie down.”

She shook her head and turned back to the rail. “I've got to watch the horizon,” she said, the wind whipping at the loose tendrils of her hair. “It helps. Now go. I shall be fine.”

But Geoff had never seen anyone so ashen. “I can order Captain Thibeaux to slow the ship,” he suggested.

“Don't you
dare
.” Her voice was tremulous with emotion. “We haven't the time, and it will but draw out the misery.”

He shifted his weight, and set his hands on the rail to either side of her, bracketing her with his body. The irrational fear that she might jump or fall still plagued him. He could feel her trembling. “Anaïs,” he said, “do you have this often?”

She gave a pathetic little laugh. “Did I say
sometimes
? I lied.”

“But . . . your travels,” he murmured. “To Tuscany. To everywhere, really.”

“Look, the truth is—” She had her eyes firmly fixed on the horizon. “The truth is, I can't cross the Thames without casting up my accounts. There, Bessett, you've had fair warning. Stay, and I shan't be accountable for that lovely waistcoat you're wearing.”

He set one hand on her shoulder. “Then why do you do it? Travel, I mean.”

“Because suffering builds character?” she suggested a little bitterly. “You know, I never much minded the long journeys across land. The being away from my family. Even the incessant political upheavals that occasionally sent me to ground. But I should rather have waded through one of Tuscany's revolutions than face a day at sea. In the end, however, England is an island, so what choice is there?”

“To stay home,” Geoff suggested, then he dropped his tone. “To embroider those pillow cushions, perhaps?”

“Out of the question,” she said.

“
Hmm
,” he said. “Is this is why you didn't come down to breakfast?”

“Did you imagine I found your company intolerable?” She gave a sharp laugh. “I assure you, Bessett, that is not the case. I simply know better than to eat before sailing.”

He let his hand slide to her waist and bent his head. “Geoff,” he quietly reminded her. “Just Geoff will do. Poor girl. You must be feeling perfectly weak-kneed.”

Again she gave her uneasy laugh. “What lady would not be, with you pressed inch-to-inch down her length?” she said.

“I'm not letting you faint and fall headfirst into the North Sea,” he said. “So yes, perhaps I'm a little close.”

“And I wish I weren't so thoroughly unable to appreciate that fact,” she said. “Oh, really, Bessett! Must we have this conversation? I seem infinitely capable of embarrassing myself. Go away now, do.”

“Come midship,” he ordered, gently pulling her away from the rail. “You'll find it a bit steadier there. Perhaps we can find you a seat.”

She came reluctantly, and in due course, Étienne, the cabin boy, unearthed a sort of deck chair from the hold. Bessett ordered it lashed to a pair of cleats and situated Anaïs beneath a heavy blanket. The fine spring morning in Ramsgate had given way to the vagaries of the sea, and the spray off the bow was picking up with their speed.

Bessett returned to his tasks, but for the remainder of the day his gaze was never far from her. The captain repeatedly offered ginger tea—and hinted at something stronger—but she refused all offers. Later, as Bessett and the rest of the crew went below in turns to eat a little bread and cold beef, Anaïs merely shook her head, and as dusk came upon them and the temperature dropped, there was soon no horizon—blurry or otherwise—to help keep her bearings.

Finally, Geoff had no choice but to force her to go below, all but carrying her down the steep, ladderlike stairs.

The
Jolie Marie
was fitted with two private cabins; the captain's forward quarters, and a second aft for guests. This minuscule cabin held four narrow berths stacked double with drawers below, a small dining table, and a mahogany washstand with a chamber pot beneath. The last was to prove useful, for as the evening came on, Anaïs began to grow clammy, and to retch violently to little effect.

Uneasy, Geoff poured the washbasin full of water, dampened a cloth, and mopped her brow. “You should try to sleep,” he suggested.

“Oh, what a miserable state of affairs this is!” Arms wrapped round her waist, Anaïs was perched on the very edge of the berth, having refused his entreaties to lie down. “I think I'm going to retch again. Please, go find something better to do, and spare me the humiliation, won't you?”

Geoff managed a weak smile. “What kind of Guardian leaves his partner alone in the lurch?” he enquired softly.

“What kind of Guardian gets seasick?”

“A great many, no doubt, under the right circumstances.” He tucked a springy, wayward curl behind her ear. “This is a wicked sea today. Here, look at me. Your hair is falling down.”

Anaïs reached behind as if to tidy it, pulled the wrong pin, and fully half the arrangement came tumbling over one shoulder. Muttering a most unladylike oath, she flung the pin across the cabin.

Geoff sat down on the edge beside her. “Look, turn round,” he soothed. “I'm going to take the pins out. Then you
are
going to lie down.”

“No,” she said feebly, propping one shoulder against the wall of the berth.

But she offered no real resistance to his plan. His fingers were clumsy at first, plucking at the higgledy-piggledy pins. Eventually, however, they were out, and Geoff set about taking the other side down, marveling at the length and the texture.

Just as he had fantasized, Anaïs's hair was a glossy, springy mass of feminine glory that tumbled to her waist, and he found himself wondering how on earth she tamed it long enough to put it up.

Unable to resist the temptation, Geoff pulled out the last pin, then ran his hands gently through it. And as he felt the warmth of it draw like satin between this fingers, it dawned on him that he'd never taken down a woman's hair just for the pleasure of it. Just for the sensual self-indulgence of feeling the warm, ropy silk draw through his fingers like air and light and water all at once.