Too Dangerous For a Lady (17 page)

“A
sensible lady would fend off an amorous gentleman,” he pointed out.

“Are there no times when a gentleman needs to fend off an amorous lady?”

“Are you determined to score points in every round?”

“I've always been competitive, and I like to win.” She leaned forward and kissed him. It was a decorous kiss, but dangerous as lips lingered against lips. He drew her closer, but her hand on his chest stopped him and then gently pushed him away.

“Well fended,” he said. “Are any servants likely to come up here without being summoned?”

“No, and they won't expect to be summoned. My maid left washing water an hour ago and put it by the fire to keep warm. I can get into and out of my simple clothing by myself.”

With some women that would be an invitation and his line would be,
“All the same, allow me to assist. . . .”

He might have said it if she'd not continued, “It's time that you tell me how you sank to thievery, my friend.”

My friend.
He wanted to be far more than a friend, but she was fending wisely. He shifted back so there was clear space between them, deciding what to say. She still thought him a thief and she worried. If he told her the truth, she'd worry more, but she wouldn't be fobbed off with nothings.

“Is it because of your mother?” she asked.

Witch to put her finger on it. He should leave before she guessed all of it, but this could be the last time he'd ever sit and talk to this woman, this friend, this enchantress. Perhaps she was a potion—an irresistible one, especially when close and by firelight, or moonlight, or in a garden by bright light of day.

“How she was harmed by the French Revolution,” she probed. “How she lost her wits and didn't know you?”

As he feared. He could give her part of the truth and he wanted to. He took her hand, stroking her fingers with his thumb. “Yes. I do what I do for her sake.” He spun out the story in his head. “I can only steal from the French, you see.” No wonder she looked puzzled. “The French drove my mother mad, so I can steal from them with a clear conscience.”

She probably thought him half-mad, and she'd be right for the wrong reasons. If it squashed any growing tenderness, he must be pleased.

“Not all the French were Jacobins,” she pointed out gently.

“I know my feelings aren't reasonable, but I can't help them. If I meet a French person who's over forty, I can't help wondering if they were Jacobins. If they took part in the mobs and terror, if they slaughtered innocents simply for their birth. I was obliged to spend some time in Paris in 1814 and I looked at everyone of that age and wondered if they'd cheered as people's heads fell into the guillotine basket. As the heads of my uncle and cousins and my parents' friends fell into the basket. I wanted all such people sent to the guillotine in turn.”

Too much of the truth. He'd tightened his grip on her hand. Instead of protesting, she matched that hold. “It was a madness, Thayne. They are probably normal people now and ashamed of what they did.”

“That doesn't make them innocent.”

“No, but such hatred could destroy you. You could hang if caught for theft.”

This felt like a confessional. His mother had retained her Roman faith and when he was young, she'd insisted on him being trained to it and taking its sacraments. It had been one of many performances he'd enacted to keep his mother sane. At the same time his father had taught him Protestant ways, making the papist ones seem like playacting or a game. Once he went away to school, he'd left the papist ways behind him.

His mother had never commented. Either she'd forgotten or she was sane enough to see how it must be in a country where Papists were still burdened with many restrictions.

Now, in this new, golden confessional, he told what truth he could. “The thievery is recent. My feelings led me to being a soldier, to fighting to ensure that the French would not trample Europe or invade Britain.”

“You weren't alone in that. If Napoleon had invaded, I would have taken up arms, for he brought misery everywhere he went. But we're at peace with France now, Thayne. The battles are over.”

“My mother's cause remains.” He escaped for the moment by putting more wood on the fire. “No one burns wood in London anymore. I like the way it crackles, and the smell of it.” As he replaced the screen, he said, “It reminds me of campfires. Good times and bad.”

Light dimmed, and he turned to see she'd extinguished the lamp. It removed her halo, but now she was warmly lit by the flaming fire. She held out a hand, inviting him back. He shouldn't respond, but he turned down the two small lamps burning on the mantelpiece, took that welcoming hand, and sat down again beside her.

“Mention of the army makes me think of my brother Roger,” she said. “What would he be now if he'd survived?”

“Marquess of Carsheld?”

She smiled. “True, but what if Jermyn had lived? Would
Roger have stayed in the army? If not, what? And what would the army have done to him?”

“The army didn't create my problems.”

She leaned toward him, and he took her into his arms. Her head nestled on his shoulder, her pinned-up hair tickling his chin. He remembered it escaping pins in the inn and was tempted to set it free. Too dangerous by far.

“But you were so young,” she said. “You're not close to old now.”

He blew at that hair. “Hoary with age after becoming tangled with you.”

His joke was rewarded by a chuckle and she turned up to him. “Then you'd better kiss me before you crumble to dust.”

They'd known so few kisses and this was a new one. She offered understanding and comfort, but it instantly grew into more. He tried to draw back, but she held on tightly.

“Give up your criminal life, Thayne.”

Delilah's kiss? “I can't.”

“And I can't bear to think that you might hang. There must be other ways to earn money. Become a Bow Street Runner.”

He sipped at her lips, smiling. “No one's tried to cosset me before.”

“Cosset?”

“You'd wrap me in flannel and keep me by the hearth if you could.”

“You want to do the same to me.”

“I admit it, but that's the natural order.”

“Not in my heart. I can't bear the thought of you in danger.”

She kissed him then with a fear-filled desperation and he couldn't resist it. He tumbled her back to sprawl on the sofa as he consumed her with kisses beyond control. This indeed was truth. There was nothing moderate about his need for this woman, and nothing orderly about her response.

He'd known she could be passionate, but not that she'd discard all sensible restraint and fight any attempt of his to be wise. When he tried again to retreat, she urged him on, hands tight on him, entwined and moving with him, under him. Helping him explore her leg, her skin, her wet inner heat. . . .

Hades!

He dragged himself free and tugged her skirts back down with shaking hands. “We mustn't.”

“No.” But she said it on a breath, wide eyes on his.

Above everything in the world, he wanted to satisfy her clear desire. But he could offer her nothing, not even that he'd live. He wouldn't leave her ruined and alone.

He tried to move off the sofa, but she held on to his jacket and then coaxed him back down, shifting so they lay in each other's arms, his head on her shoulder, her arm around him. He ached as he knew she did, but to be cosseted in her arms like this was another sort of heaven.

Her gentle perfume spoke of simple days and rural tranquillity, and the fire glowed, occasional flames licking over the logs, giving off that soothing tang. This was a peace such as he'd never known before in his life.

H
ermione stroked his hair, her body regretting their good sense, but her mind content, loving having him in her arms like this. In her protection, for this brief moment at least. He was right. She wanted to protect him all her days, but she tried to show him that she understood his choices. “It's noble to care so much for your dear mother's plight.”

“Confessional again?” he murmured. “I never loved her, and she never loved me. I was her only child because giving birth was too dramatic and bloody for her. It took months for her to recover in her mind, and she only ever treated me as a child who happened to live in the same house.”

Wordless, she kissed his hair.

“I don't remember minding. I had a loving nurse.”

All the same, she wondered whether an infant knew when something was so adrift.

“To complete the confession,” he said, “I didn't love my father, either. He was more attentive, but his main focus was always my mother and her needs. When I visited before joining my regiment, he apologized for not considering children when he married, but I know he'd have done the same again. She was everything to him. So once I was in the army, I hardly gave them a thought.”

“You have nothing to reproach yourself with.”

“The Bible commands us to honor our parents.”

“Probably because it was written by hoary old men.”

She delighted in his chuckle. “Not a chess player, but sharp debater,” he said.

“Too sharp to be ladylike.”

“A warrior lady.”

“Not at all.” As was clear by the fact that she'd taken the kris out of her pocket before coming here to read. If he'd been a villain, that could have been a fatal piece of carelessness.

“You said you'd have fought if Napoleon had invaded,” he said.

“When it came to it, I'd have probably hidden in a corner, quaking.”

“A kiss for courage,” he said, turning up his head. She provided it, but lightly. Anything more would be too dangerous.

“Your turn to confess,” he said, settling back. “Do I gather you were stretched to honor your father?”

“Extremely. He did nothing to deserve it, and didn't have your parents' excuse. He avoided us when we were children. By the time we were old enough to be worthy of his interest, we all knew he was lazy and selfish to the bone. Money was always short and he flew into tantrums at talk of any spending on us or the house, but he denied himself nothing. Fine horses and clothes, and fine women in London, I'm sure. Once, when we were in London in the spring, he ate a whole dish of new peas, the first of the season, without thinking anyone else might want some. I didn't love him and I feel no guilt about it.”

“I grant you absolution.”

“Perhaps the papist confessional has a purpose,” she said, looking at the fire, which would soon need another piece of wood. The supply in the box was getting low, but she couldn't ring for a servant to bring more. Perhaps she'd end up cold again, but for now Thayne would keep her warm. “I've never been able to talk this way before. I'm
sure Polly feels the same about Father, but she'd be distressed to tears to say it.”

“People cling to convention.”

“Thinking as they ought,” she agreed. “The world would fall into chaos if we didn't, but here I can say I didn't grieve for my older brother's death, either. Jermyn was exactly like my father. Roger was a better brother, but just as selfish. I blame my mother for that. She thought sons so much more important than daughters.” She found she wanted to talk about Roger, something else she'd been unable to do honestly. To Polly he had to be a perfect hero in every respect.

“He went into the army because he needed a profession and Napoleon needed to be stopped, but I think the action appealed to him. He loved riding and shooting and any sort of sport. At Harrow, he excelled at cricket, but I doubt he excelled at his studies. I never saw him with a book. He was rarely home once he went to school. We lived on a tight purse, but he had wealthy friends. One was the heir to a dukedom with access to fabulous horses and hunting. Another was an Irish boy and Roger spent a summer there on a horse-breeding estate. There was another duke's son who seemed to be full of fun and many others. When Roger's death was reported in the papers, we received letters from so many people who clearly felt his loss.”

“That must have been a comfort.”

“Perhaps, but I found it unsettling. The letters were heartfelt, but they were from strangers. One even offered assistance if needed.”

“Your father was the Moneyless Marquess.”

“You think he was offering
money
? That's even worse.”

He shifted again to look at her. “The sin of pride?”

“Dignity,” she protested.

“But if the letter was from a friend, the writer was probably as young as your brother. It could have been well-meant.”

“I hadn't thought of that. At the time I was in no state to
think clearly at all. I was torn apart by Roger being gone, far away and violently.” That brought his danger too close. “Can you not give up crime?”

After a moment he said, “Not yet.”

That was something. “Soon?” she persisted.

“I don't know, love.”

“Love?”

He moved them both to sitting. “I shouldn't have said that.”

“But did you mean it? If you loved me . . . No, I won't say it.”

“If I loved you, I'd choose the safer ways? Perhaps you're right.”

“I don't understand. I don't think you're telling me the whole truth. Are you in debt? Did your father leave you in debt?”

He put fingers over her lips. “I haven't told you the whole truth, and I can't. It's true, however, that my path is dangerous and I can't leave it yet. There's nothing for us until I can.”

She wanted to fight his sober words. She wanted to beat against his will until he told her everything, because if she understood the problems, she could solve them—she'd be able to sweep away the danger and have the prize. But some instinct stopped her. Her fighting and beating could shatter everything. “At least promise to be as careful as can be.”

“I can do that.”

“And promise to come back to me.”

He grimaced at such an impossible demand, but said, “If there's any way on earth.” He kissed her forehead. “I begin to understand my father, but I must be stronger than he.”

She wanted him bound to her needs in the same way. That was probably unworthy, but she wanted it all the same
and was desperate enough to say it. “I need you alive and with me, Thayne. A week ago I didn't know it, but I think I've needed you ever since that ball.”

He cupped her face with one hand. “And I you. I vow to do my utmost to be safe and to return to you.”

His kiss was so gentle it felt almost sacred, and he held her as if she were made of spun glass. She'd not been cherished like this since she'd been a child. She'd never been important to anyone like this, or felt this way about another. It was painful and precious and she ached to find a way to chain him to safety.

He needed something different, however, and she loved him enough to try to give it.

She moved back to smile for him. “Don't think me fragile. I'm not bold or brave, but I believe I'm strong in the mind. I stay on the level. I don't fly high and low. I cope with what happens.”
I won't run mad, no matter what happens.

It worked. She saw his lopsided smile again. “As when a rascal invaded your room.”

“Polly would have screamed, then and there, but I didn't.”

“For which I burn incense at your altar.”

“What I'm trying to tell you is that you don't need to fret about me.”

“Can you not fret about me?”

“No, because you're a thief with horrible people wanting to kill you. I'm an ordinary woman living an ordinary life. Why couldn't you be a . . . a shopkeeper?”

His smile broadened to a grin. “What shall we sell? Candles or cups, books or bodkins?”

“Soap, always wrapped in a pretty package.”

A log collapsed in the grate, bringing them back to reality. The fire would soon be out. How long had they been here, illicitly alone and intimate, lost in passion, longing, and whimsy?

He stood, straightening his clothing, but then he looked
at her. “My Hermione, relaxed in the glow of firelight, disordered and dangerous to all my righteous intentions.”

She should have straightened, stood up, and perhaps even protested, but she could only smile back at him, so handsome and strong in the dying light, despite his scruffy trimmings.

He knelt by the sofa to kiss her. “I want to stay here with you more than I've wanted anything in my life.”

So tempting to grasp him and hold him. Instead she smiled. “One day you will.”

One day, if it was within her power, a fireside conversation and kisses sweet and spicy would lead in due course to a lawful bed and thence to heaven. But where? In a cottage? In some tenement? Reality crept into the idyll, but she felt sure now that he wasn't a common thief. A good life must be possible.

“You truly must go to London?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Into danger?”

“Perhaps.”

“Then go in disguise.”

“A wig and fake mustaches?”

“A woman would be better. A long wig and a fake bosom.”

“No.”

“Infuriating man. I wish I could give you a talisman.”

“You already did.” He rose and took a bit of dirty white out of his pocket. She recognized the silk rose.

“You kept it,” she said, and tears threatened.

“Treasured it. It's sadly battered and grimy, but it's kept me safe.”

“Then don't lose it.” She reached into a pocket and took out a brass button. “I still have this.”

“Polished, even.”

“Of course.”

“I'd kiss you again if I dared. May that talisman keep you safe. Don't forget that you could be in danger, too. Be as careful as you pray I will be.”

He was finding it hard to leave, and she wished he need never do so, but he must. She rose and lit a candle at the dying fire. “How did you get into the house?”

“Through the glass doors into the garden.”

“They were unlocked?”

“I had the means to unlock them.”

That shook her. Was he a common thief after all? A housebreaker? She'd leave all that for daylight and sanity. “I'll go ahead to be sure the way is clear.”

She opened the door and looked out into the dark house. All quiet and clear. She led the way downstairs and to the side door, where he put his boots back on. Again he lingered. Again, despite all good sense, she longed to beg him to stay.

“God go with you,” she said.

“And with you. Till we meet again.”

“In London?”

“Remember, my enemies won't recognize you, but if they see you with me, you could be in danger. Stay away from me, Hermione. I'll come to you when it's safe.” Perhaps he saw her doubts, for he added, “On my honor, I will.”

*   *   *

Hermione watched as long as his shadowy form was visible, but in time she had to admit that he was gone. Her beloved was gone.

Her beloved.
Her tender emotions grew from the gallant young officer of that ball and seemed able to overwhelm the reality now, but reality lurked like a shadow. She was in danger of falling in love with a man who could offer her nothing but poverty and fear.

And yet, now, at this moment, she was powerless to be sensible.

Her beloved was gone.
Forever
, said the dread in her mind, but “For now,” she said out loud to fight the dark. They would meet again and somehow she would find a way for them to be together. She remembered Edgar's money. She hoped it would be a long time before he died, but perhaps if there was a fortune, he'd give her a dowry. It might be enough for a simple, decent life. There had to be a way!

She locked the door and went back upstairs, reliving the encounter. Reliving all their encounters. How extraordinary that they meet again after all these years by happenstance, but somehow she felt it had always been inevitable. Why else had she kept the brass button and even polished it now and then? Why else had she found reasonable offers of marriage lacking?

She returned to the drawing room to make sure the fire was safe and then went to her bedroom, where her nightgown hung before the fire. As it had at the inn. If she'd been in her bedroom earlier, he would have invaded here. Would their encounter have tumbled even further out of control? Propriety and good sense said no, but propriety and good sense seemed to be a small part of her these days and the rest of her ached with
What if?
What if they'd lost all restraint? It would have been glorious. What if he died and they never had? The cold, sensible parts of her mind shouted how wise it had been not to commit herself, and how she mustn't let passion overrule them.

But it's so much more than passion.

She walked past the bed, sliding a hand over the smooth wood of a post, to the window, where she peered out through a gap between the curtains. There were few lit windows at this hour and none not covered by curtains or shutters.

It's love. Even apart. Even if we were apart forever, love would rule.

He had a room at the Ferry Inn, and she knew where that was, even in the dark, but she didn't know which
window and couldn't stay staring at the building forever, as if that would protect him.

She turned away and poured lukewarm water into her china bowl, but as she did so, she offered a simple prayer. “Keep my beloved safe, dear Lord. Bring him back to me.”