Barbara Metzger (6 page)

No, he would not take her back, even if he knew her direction. He noticed that she was careful not to mention an address or a family name. At least the peagoose had some sense. St. Cloud wondered if she would trust him enough to hand over her coach fare so he could hire job horses and drive her to London himself. It meant a long, uncomfortable night, but he’d had worse and she would be safe, he thought. “Who is it you go to visit in London, Junco? You and Pansy?”

“Mrs. Simms, our old housekeeper. I thought she might find me a position in the mansion where she is employed.”

Juneclaire had to grab Pansy to keep the pig from falling off the seat, the curricle stopped so suddenly, and she was sure the words coming from Mr. Jordan’s lips were not meant for a lady’s ears. She knew he would have that ugly look on his face, but by now she was confident enough that he was not going to turn violent on her. He simply had a volatile temper, no patience, and a colorful vocabulary. Juneclaire had nearly reached the end of her tether, too, however. “I know my plan is caper-witted,” she shouted back at him. “But I have nowhere else to go. And not just for Pansy’s sake. I’d rather go into service—be a scullery maid or such—than be married off willy-nilly to some overweight sea captain or a snuff-drenched squire whose only conversation is about what animal he killed last. I have no choice! I am not a man who can join the army or take religious orders or read the law. No one will even teach me a trade! All I have is Pansy. What am I supposed to do?”

Two days on the road had taken their toll on Miss Beaumont’s courage. A short tirade against this scowling stranger was the best she could manage before tears started to well in her eyes. Silently St. Cloud handed her a fine lawn handkerchief and then clucked the horses into motion.

That tore it, he conceded. There was no choice but to take the chit to St. Cloud Priory, but heaven knew the little pigeon deserved better than the flock of vultures there. He’d get fresh horses at Bramley one way or another and then turn around. The earl did not know how Miss Juneclaire Oneword was going to accept his high-handed decision. Not well, he guessed from her last burst of indignation. He’d face that hurdle once they reached Bramley.

As a matter of fact, where the hell was Bramley? They had turned off the Thackford road miles back at a cross sign and should have reached the town, he thought, although he did not know the way so well from this direction. “Ah, Junco, is this the road to Bramley?”

“How should I know?” she snuffled into his handkerchief. “I’ve never been here before.”

T
hey were lost. Juneclaire was glad she could not see her companion’s face in the gathering darkness. He was on foot, leading the horses up an uneven dirt track they were hoping led to a farmhouse. So many muffled imprecations came back to her through the cold night, Juneclaire began to wonder if Mr. Jordan had ever been a sailor. He certainly was not a countryman, stubbing his toe on every stone.

“Oh, look,” she called out to distract him, “the evening star. Let’s make a wish.”

“Ouch! Bloody bastard bedrock.” She’d distracted him too much. “I wish you to Jericho, Miss Juneclaire—ooph.”

The one word he uttered was not even in her mental dictionary, thank goodness. With her breath making clouds in front of her face, Juneclaire stated, “Then I shall have to wish for you. I shall wish for your heart’s desire.”

“Right now my heart’s desire is a hot tub and a warm brandy. If you can produce those, Junco, I shall believe in leprechauns, genies, and brown-eyed goddesses. Otherwise, wishes are for schoolgirls.”

She made her wish anyway, not for his bodily comforts but for his troubled soul. The man might be an aristocrat, but he was not happy. Juneclaire had finally taken a better look at the cut of his coat and the quality of his horses, after she got over being terrorized at his arrogant ill humor. She refused to be embarrassed by her earlier remarks about the nobility, not if he was unabashed at his profanity. He
was
toplofty, refusing to let her go on alone, looking down his distinguished nose at her plans. He was obviously not used to being disagreed with, she thought with chagrin, recalling the row that had ensued when he tried to blame her for getting them lost, as if she should have known to bring a map with her when she left home. He had not demurred when she called him “my lord” either.

No matter, Lord Merritt might have everything in the world he wanted—not at this moment, of course—with no need to make wishes, but Juneclaire thought otherwise. She thought he was so cynical, he’d lost the capacity to believe in miracles. Perhaps he had been disappointed too many times. Juneclaire mightn’t have a home or a loving family, a fortune or a settled future, but she still looked for magic. So she made her wish for his inner contentment.

 

Ice-cold well water for washing and tepid lemonade for drinking were not what Lord Merritt requested, his lowered brows reminded Juneclaire, but she smiled complacently. He was much happier now that they had found this old barn. He even whistled while rubbing down the horses. There were no lights at the farmhouse, but the barn was half filled with workhorses. St. Cloud thought the family must be off visiting for the holiday. He put his chestnuts in a loose box near the end of the row and swept out two other stalls with no signs of recent occupation. There was fresh hay for the horses, straw for their own beds, and a lantern by which to eat the rest of her hoarded food. Pansy was having a wonderful time, rooting around in the corncrib, and Juneclaire was pleased.

“Why are you wearing that Mona Lisa smile, Junco? We are miles from nowhere, with an irate farmer liable to burst in on us at any minute, and our next meal has just eaten more than her fair share of this one.”

Juneclaire wasn’t worried, since he was scratching behind the little pig’s ears while he spoke. “This is a great improvement over sleeping under a bush,” she told him, then lowered her eyes. “And I feel safer with you here.”

He snorted, or Pansy did. “I daresay I am more protection than the porker, but not much. Some hero I have been. In one day I have gotten myself robbed and lost. I have no money, no pistol, no map, and I am eating your food.”

“And you shouted at me.”

“That, too. You should be demanding my head on a platter instead of feeding my pride. Any proper hero would have found you a proper bed.”

Juneclaire settled into the straw and began to take her hair down. “But you found me just what I wanted. I have always dreamed of staying up all night in a barn on Christmas Eve to see if the animals really do speak at midnight, as the old tales say.”

“Do you believe they will?”

She did not notice the way his eyes watched her, green glitters in the lantern’s light. “Goodness,” she said after removing the mouthful of hairpins to her pocket, “I have no idea and won’t until I see for myself. Aunt Marta would never let me, of course. She was petrified that I might find myself alone with the grooms and stableboys. Aunt Marta is a terrible snob, you see.”

“I daresay she would be relieved that you are alone with a wellborn rake,” he noted drily.

Juneclaire paused in her efforts to brush her hair out of the thick braids that had been wound into a bun at her neck. “Are you really a rake?”

St. Cloud leaned back in the straw, a reed in his mouth. He watched the way the lantern cast golden highlights through her soft brown hair, way past her shoulders, covering her . . . cloak. He sat up. “I suppose I was, once. Now? Maybe it depends on one’s definition. Are you afraid for your virtue?”

She looked like a startled fawn, those brown eyes wide open, thick brows arched high. The thought had never occurred to her. “Should I be?”

The earl had given over thinking of Juneclaire as Madonna-like hours ago. Now he was rearranging his impression of this hobbledehoy waif. The translucent beauty and the purity were still there, but Miss Juneclaire was no child. She was a damned desirable woman. He could think of few things he’d rather do than run his hands through those silky masses or feel her soft lips smile with pleasure under his kisses or—

“No,” he answered curtly, getting up to snuff out the lantern. “I don’t seduce innocents.”

“Oh.” Juneclaire could not keep the wistfulness out of her voice. She’d never even met a rake before and was hardly likely to again. She sighed and thought she heard a chuckle from his makeshift bed in the neighboring stall. She must be wrong. Her stone-faced savior was not much given to light humor. “Merry?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t you find me attractive?”

That was a definite chuckle, followed by his own sigh. “Very, minx, but I find I am still somewhat of a gentleman. You are under my care, and that means you are safe, even from me. Especially from me. So stop fishing for compliments and go to sleep, Junco. It’s been a long day and you must be tired. I am.”

He rolled over in the straw. Juneclaire pulled Pansy closer for warmth but did not shut her eyes. She could see starlight through the chinks in the barn’s roof. Every now and again one of the horses would stamp its foot.

“Merry?”

He turned around again, bumping his elbow on the wooden partition. “Blast. Woman, do not try my patience.”

“But, Merry, I do not wish to sleep. Then I will never know about the animals. Won’t you talk to me a bit so I stay awake?”

He grumbled, but she could tell he sat up. “What do you wish to talk about?”

“I don’t know. . . . What do you do all day? Usually, I mean, when you are not traveling about the countryside saving silly girls?”

So he told her about his clubs and his wagers, Gentleman Jackson’s and Manton’s, the House and the War Office, agricultural lectures and investment counselors. He told her about the opera and the theater and balls, thinking that’s what a rural young miss might care about. None of it whatsoever seemed interesting to him: neither the telling nor the living. Juneclaire, however, seemed to be swallowing his tales as eagerly as Pansy relished the windfall apples stored in another unused stall.

Juneclaire was thinking that she was right: he was indeed a man of means. His lordship’s life was full and glamorous, dedicated to his own pleasure. He was as far above her as the stars overhead. She never felt her lowly status so much as when he asked what she did all day and she had to tell him about going to church and visiting the sick, helping Cook and directing the housemaids, mending and polishing and tending the flower gardens.

St. Cloud thought again of seeing her relations drawn and quartered for turning their own flesh and blood into a drudge. They hadn’t managed to ruin her spirit, though, for he could detect the pleasure she derived from her roses and her sugarplums, the pride she took in seeing her aunt’s house run well. Juneclaire was a real lady, and a rakehell such as he was not fit to touch her hem.

That did not keep the earl from moving his pile of straw to her side of the partition, though, so they could talk more easily. Juneclaire scrunched over to give him more room. St. Cloud did not want to talk about tomorrow, when he would have to force unpleasant decisions on her, and Juneclaire did not want to discuss the future, when this enchanted interlude would be only a memory to savor. So they talked about the past, the happier times before his father was injured and her father was killed, before his mother turned him over to tutors and hers slipped away. They talked of Christmases past.

“When we were in France, the whole family gathered in the kitchen to stir the Christmas pudding. Did yours?” she wanted to know.

“The children, sometimes. I doubt my mother even knows the way to the kitchen. What about you? Aunt Marta doesn’t sound like one to take her turn after the potboy.”

“She thinks it’s all pagan superstition,” she said regretfully, then added, “but I used to sneak down and have my turn anyway. Cook would call for me last, just before it was done.”

“And would she put in the ring and the key and the penny? I cannot remember the other charms that were supposed to bring luck or wealth or whatever.”

“No, Cook never dared to put the lucky pieces in the pudding she made for the family. I think she made another just for the staff.”

“It was rigged in my household anyway. Aunt Florrie always got the little silver horse. She would cry otherwise. Aunt Florrie is not quite right,” he explained, wondering if he should also mention his vaporish mother, wayward cousin, devious uncle, blind grandmother. No, he decided. Why chance giving the chit nightmares? And that was without reference to the ghost. He pictured Juneclaire crying out in the night, her hair tumbled over her shoulders, throwing herself into his arms in the straw. He shook his head. Unworthy, St. Cloud. “Oh yes, and once she was permitted at the table, Cousin Elsbeth always managed to receive the piece of pudding with the ring in it. It never helped, for she is twenty and still unwed.”

“Then she must not have wished hard enough.”

“I suspect it has more to do with her ambitious expectations and her shrewish nature. But I am certain you must have made a wish, fairy child that you are. What did you wish for?” He thought she’d confess to seeking a visit to London, fancy clothes and balls, like Elsbeth.

Suddenly shy, Juneclaire answered, “Just the usual schoolgirl fancies, I suppose.” She was not about to tell him that her wish was going to be for a handsome cavalier to rescue her from the corpulent captain or the smelly squire. That had already come true, without her even making the wish! “I know,” she declared, changing the subject, “let’s make our Christmas wishes anyway. No, not for a hot meal or anything silly like that, but something special, something important. It’s supposed to come true by Twelfth Night if you are deserving, so your wish must be for something worth being good.”

“Do you mean only the righteous can have their wishes answered? I thought those were prayers,” he teased.

Juneclaire considered. “Being good never hurts.”