The Danger of Desire (21 page)

Hugh visualized it all in his mind, easily seeing the desperation that would have driven her. He had to admire her spirit, her adaptability. Some people, the people in what passed for “Society,” would have starved. Any of the young women his mother pushed his way would have simply withered away before they took any real steps to provide for themselves. It had taken courage, nerve, and backbone. Yes, he did admire her. She rather reminded him of himself.

But twelve. It nagged at his mind. What had gone on before that?

“And you, Captain?” She cut into his thoughts. “How did you come to take in “bantling thieves” for the benefit of His Majesty’s government?”

“You shouldn’t listen at doors.”

“There’s a lot of things I shouldn’t.” Her thumbs found a tense spot. “Mrs. Tupper says you were Post Captain and a hero at Aboukir Bay, and that was where you were injured.”

“No. It was afterwards. At Acre. A different battle, on land. I was—as one might say—out of my element.”

She was quiet for a long moment, her hands slowing. “How did it happen, then, your leg?”

“Simply blown to pieces. Our own damned artillery piece, brought up from one of our ships, exploded. I was hit.” He could hear the bitterness in his voice and taste the sour tang in his mouth. He wasn’t normally given to such obvious self-pity. Self-loathing, perhaps. It must be the brandy. It could have nothing to do with the way her hands felt upon his shoulders, how he could smell the slight fragrance of rose soap on her hands. The soap he had spent nearly an hour purchasing for her. “God, that feels good.” He closed his eyes for a moment only, determined to right himself, to still her hands and stop the deep feelings springing from the surprising intimate moment.

Hugh opened his eyes and saw her reflection bending down toward him for a moment before she raised her head back up. She had been about to kiss him. He was sure of it.

But she had already started to pull away. “Your fire needs to be built up.”

Hugh clasped his hand over hers on his shoulder. “Thank you. For your kindness,” he said quietly. “That felt very nice.”

She was pulling away. And he didn’t know how to stop her.

“Don’t worry about the fire. Take yourself off to bed. Tell Mrs. Tupper the same. Good night.”

“Good night, Captain.”

The ache in his leg was gone, but it had been replaced by one in his heart. He really was going to have to cultivate a taste for something stronger than brandy.

CHAPTER 15

“
C
ome along sifting that flour! Dinner’s serving in two minutes. No, keep sifting. Else we’ll have lumps in the gravy. Or worse.” Mrs. Tupper sniffed suspiciously at the flour sack.

“Awful lot of bother for nothing,” Meggs opined. “Don’t know why you want to sift out the bugs. Might as well eat them. They’ll give you more nourishment.”

Mrs. Tupper’s mouth gaped open like a hooked mackerel. She put one hand on her hip and pointed emphatically toward the kitchen stair. “That’s enough of that. Go on with you. And take that roast up with you. No sense in going empty-handed.”

They were to eat in the dining room, proper, all of them. Meggs was seated, awaiting the rest of the household, when she heard the captain come up behind her, his gait making the floorboards creak unevenly. He came and put his hands over her shoulders and rubbed them a little, just like she’d done last night, thumbing into the tight, tense muscles along her spine. Giving her a bit of the jim-jams. But in a nice way. He seemed to do that every chance he got today—give her a touch, quick and sure. But nice. As if he liked making sure she was near. Or as if he wanted her to know he was near and she could rely upon him. Either way, her insides were fluttering like a jar full of fireflies.

He leaned down to speak quietly into her ear, and she felt the stir of his breath along her skin. “I would appreciate it if you would keep all species of insects out of my food, no matter their dubious nutritional value. I’ve had more than enough of that in the navy, and I don’t wish to experience it again in my own home.”

“Sorry. I didn’t realize. I was just giving Mrs. Tupper a bit of—”

“Cheek. Yes. And she’s proper flustered.”

The captain backed away as Timmy came in, but when he went to his own seat, she could see he was smiling—the chewed-up smile where he was trying not to, but had to anyway. She smiled back.

Near the end of the meal, the captain held up his glass of claret and said, “Well, Meggs, it’s time to send you off. Tomorrow’s the day.”

The flutter of nervousness turned into pinwheels. But she was looking forward to it, in a way, to prove herself to the captain. Perhaps even impress him. “Who’s it to be?”

“Lord Peter Stoval. The house is Number Twenty-Four Upper Grosvenor Street, corner of Park Lane. So we’ll be able to keep a watch on you, or at least the house, from the park.”

“How am I to get in?”

“We have reason to believe the household will shortly be in need of a maid, and you will present yourself at the kitchen stairs, bright and early tomorrow morning, excellent references in hand and hopeful smile on your face. And you will either be hired or you will make a reconnaissance of the premises and find a way of reentering the house.”

“And how do you know they’re wanting a maid?”

The captain chewed on another piece of his smile. “They’ve lost a girl from their kitchen just this morning. Seems she decided to take an impromptu visit to her sister in Yorkshire, and while she is there, she will surely decide to take a wonderful position as housekeeper to a lovely old gentleman who lives a simple retired life in the same village as her sister.”

“Jesus God. You’re gonna nab ’er, ain’t you?”

“
Aren’t
you?” he corrected. “No, we’re not
gonna
”—he took another sip of wine—“we already have. And before you get your petticoats in a twist, the girl has not been harmed in the least and will even see just the improvement in her situation I have described.”

“You mean, you already got her that position all lined up? Before you sent her off to her sister in Yorkshire?”

“Yes.”

She let out an appreciative whistle. “How’d you manage that?”

“I have friends.”

“I could use some better friends, it seems. Then I could see an improvement in
my
situation. But seems I’m to remain a mop squeezer. Right then, how’igh and mighty does a maid at Number Twenty-Four Upper Grosvenor Street need to be?” She made her accent all toff-like.

“Not at all high or mighty. Scullery maid’s the job. Very pleasing and quiet, but they seem to like handsome girls in his house, so I’ve no doubt you’ll be chosen.”

“Handsome. Does that mean you think I’m handsome?”

“You’ll do.”

“Handsome. Even in the scullery.” She looked down at her hand. “Have to have these stitches out.”

“Hmm. Yes.” He reached out his hand, flat on the table, as if he meant for her to place her own hand in it. And she would have, except Mrs. Tupper interjected.

“Right,” the housekeeper said. “You just bring these down to the kitchen, and I’ll have those stitches out in a jiffy.” She stood up and started clearing away the plates.

Meggs could only follow. Coffee and stitches. Not exactly what the captain had in mind, judging from the disapproving looks he was giving from under his brows. He was all battened-down sternness with this hands folded across his chest and tucked under his arms, like he had to hold them there to keep from taking the scissors out of Mrs. Tupper’s hands.

The mental image of the captain’s hands trying to hold those tiny, bird-shaped embroidery scissors was beyond ridiculous. His big fingers couldn’t even fit through the loops.

“What’s so funny?” He smiled and frowned all at the same time. It made him look silly and young. And made her insides melt into a puddle.

“You. She’s not hurting me.”

“Then stop biting your lip.”

“I’m not biting—Oww!”

“There, there,” Mrs. Tupper cooed. “Just a bit sticky. Almost done. There, that’s the last of them.”

And then the captain had swooped in and was pressing a hot, moist towel to her paw, sopping up the last little bits of pus and blood from the threads, then holding her hand pressed between his. “How’s it feel?”

He was talking about her hand, but she couldn’t even feel it, the way he was standing so near, all warm and solid. Her stomach was trying to make those funny little flips again. “Umm. Good.” She flexed her fingers a little, feeling the tug of the scar. “I’m that glad to have ’em out. They were getting itchy. Itchy palm means you’re coming into money, old Nan used to say. Let’s hope she was right.”

“Yes, let’s. Come upstairs to the study so we can go over the last of your instructions, as well.”

He went ahead, and she followed after helping Mrs. Tupper and Timmy tidy up, so that he had already poured himself a drink from his liquor tray by the time she came through the door. “Care for a drink?”

“No.” She threw herself into one of the chairs in front of the fire and contemplated the scar. It didn’t look half bad. And more important, her hand worked just as well as ever.

“How about a sherry?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Don’t really think I’m ladylike enough for sherry.”

He chewed his smile into submission and got right back to the business of frowning. “You’ll do.” He walked over to his desk and tossed her a small bundle he pulled out of the top drawer.

She caught it reflexively and weighed it out with her hands for a moment. “What’s this then?”

He merely nodded at the sailcloth-wrapped package in her hand, so she carefully untied the string and unwrapped a heavy roll of flannel. “Set of picklocks? You never!”

They were beautiful—finely made and well balanced. Steel and brass. Very fine. And a gift. From him. “What’d these set you back?”

He waved aside all questions of cost. “I want you to have them in case you need them at Stoval’s.”

“A set like this will have me finding excuses to use them. It was right kind of you.”

“Kindness had nothing to do with it.” His voice grew rusty and gruff. “You need the right tools to do this job. You can’t expect Lord Stoval to leave miscellaneous, secret communications from the Admiralty lying out on his breakfast table for you to find.”

He was trying to put her on her guard. As if she hadn’t practically been born on her guard. Still, she wasn’t about to argue with him. He had given her another gift. “Oh, no, right you are, not him. Sneaky, chary bastard, he is.”

“Agreed, so I want you to be careful.”

Was that real concern in his voice? She tried hard to ignore the feeling of happiness brewing inside her like hot tea. No. He was only being professional, that was all. But still, it was a gift. Just like the soap. Finer than was called for, if they were being strictly professional about it. “Right you are.”

And he was being very professional, staying all the way across the room and looking all stern and captainlike. “If you need anything, you’ve only to send word.”

She made her voice cheerful and professional, as if she wasn’t all over jim-jams at the thought of leaving his house. “Let’s hope I can make friends with the bootboy. Oh, do you think Mrs. Tupper might give me a jar of those toffee sweets of hers? That’d go miles for bribery and favors.”

“I’ll have her do that.” He came close enough to hand her a small glass of sherry before he retreated behind his desk, still frowning as if he were displeased and looking all gruff ship’s captain.

And so she babbled on to cover the uncomfortable silence. “Funny, how I like this, the sherry. All smooth and rich, like a grand lady.”

“So if you need help, you’ll send word?”

“Can’t think that I’d need any helping.”

He made a rude sound of disagreement. “I’ll look for you on market days. Stoval’s household often sends one of the scullery maids out with the kitchen maids and the cook when they go to market. The footmen are too grand to carry market baskets.”

“Which market?”

“Shepherd’s, south down Park Lane, is their usual, but I’ll look for you at Covent Garden and Hungerford Market if you don’t appear at Shepherd’s.”

“Right you are.” It was nice, knowing she could count on him. It made her feel sure, solid, and safe inside. Knowing he would be looking out for her. Made her feel ... not important, but well, necessary. As if she were, perhaps, as necessary to him as he was to her.

But he didn’t say anything like that. He only said, “Take care of yourself, Meggs,” in a voice gruff with command.

“Don’t you worry, Cap’n. I can take care of myself.” She would make him proud. She would make him glad he had taken all the trouble with her hand.

“I don’t doubt that, Meggs.”

“Thank you.” But if he had that much confidence in her, why wasn’t he smiling? Why was he as stern and grave as if she were going off to war? “I’ll bung the case and be back before you know it, but you’ll be careful with the Tanner while I’m gone, won’t you?”

“I will.” He turned his face away to look into the fire. “Now off to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”

When he checked on her that night, making his silent way up to the attics as he had done almost every night in the quiet wee hours of the morning, she stirred. For the first time, she woke while he stood there, shielding the candle with his hand to mute the light, braced for her reaction.

Which was nothing but a small, almost imperceptible movement of her head before she asked, “Is it time, then?” in a voice cottony with sleep.

“No,” he assured her. “Go back to sleep.”

She half rolled to peer at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just checking on you.”

“Oh.” She blinked her dark, shining eyes at him slowly, sleepily. Beautifully. “Are you worried? That I’ll get it wrong, or bolt on you?”

“No,” he lied. He was worried. But not that she’d bungle the job. She was too professional for that. “Go back to sleep.”

She turned over with the slightest flounce and settled herself back into the mattress. Like a long, lithe cat, though there was nothing kittenish about her. Meggs seemed to take up the whole mattress. One arm was thrown over her head and the other fisted up a hank of the coverlet. Her legs were splayed out in opposite directions. Even as he watched, she kicked a foot out from under the sheets, disrupting the bedclothes, as she twisted her bare foot around to rest uncovered atop the coverlet.