Heaven Sent the Wrong One (7 page)

It landed just inside the perimeter of the red center mark.

An excellent shot.

The women broke into applause.

"Your turn," she regarded Andrew with a quirk of an eyebrow.

"Ah
—now I know where the confidence comes from," he said as he selected a dart from his table. "You may be an excellent shot, Miss Banana," he stood in position and unceremoniously released the dart after a quick appraisal of the target, "but I'm a perfect shot."

Alexandra stared in consternation at the board.

His dart had hit the red center dot right in the middle.

He winked at her amidst
the vigorous cheers and whistling from the men.

She harrumphed and stalked back to her table, ignoring the playful taunts from the male audience.

You'll be just fine,
she mumbled in annoyance to herself, her competitive side rising to the fore.
You can do this.

Her lips curved slyly at the next challenge. She may be an excellent shot with the darts, but her aim was flawless with the bow and arrow.

She retrieved an arrow from the cylinder and picked up the bow, positioning herself on the designated mark. Hoisting the arrow against the bowstring, she secured the position of the shaft and drew it backwards until the string strained.

The target for this exercise was a great distance farther than the darts, but it was nothing she had not done before with precisi
on. She carefully set her aim at the center circle. Then, with a final nod of satisfaction, she released the arrow.

It hit the center of the mark with a rapid quiver.

The women shrieked, clapping in jubilation.

"Nice shot," Andrew said as she returned the
bow to its perch next to her table.

"It can
’t get any better than that," she gloated and threw him an arch glance.

"We'll see," he shuffled through the bows in his cylinder, checking and feeling for the sharpest point. "I'm a man of action
—unlike certain people who are all talk and nonsense."

She rolled her eyes and pulled a face at his back.

He went to his mark and picked up his bow, drawing the string with the arrow so tautly, the bow bent severely backwards until she thought it would snap. Surely, this excessive force was not necessary for the arrow to reach the target, she frowned. But then again, he might not be as adept at this particular sport as he wanted her to believe.

The entire apparatus shook violently with a resounding twang when he released th
e arrow.

It made an audible swishing noise as it sliced through the air at a very high speed.

The whole audience gasped.

His arrow landed precisely in the center of the circle
— splitting hers into two.

Alexandra stared at the still quivering bow in stupef
action.

Good Lord
. Where did he learn how to do that? She knew from experience that making that shot required many hours of practice. It meant mastery of the skill, achieved only with dedication and perhaps a prestigious trainer.

The audience erupted in ap
plause and ear-splitting whistles.

"Your turn," he swept a handful of honey blond hair off his forehead, giving her a quick flick of his eyebrows and pursing his lips with a look of utter self-satisfaction.

Alexandra's hands went cold. No—she reminded herself; he's just a valet—and that—that was just a lucky shot, nothing more.

She quickly gathered her bruised confidence and collected the last weapon on her table
—the rifle.

The wildly cheering crowd hushed.

Alexandra winced at the weight of the gun. It was heavy and cumbersome, unlike the pistols she favored. She turned her attention to where the man in charge had finished affixing a board. The target for this challenge was set even further than the bow and arrow. From where she stood on her mark, her view of the center circle equated to a speck of red paint.

She drew a deep breath to calm her nerves. This wasn't the first time she handled a rifle. She'd gone hunting with her papa many times and had always done very well. This would be no different from shoot
ing geese flying in the air.

She held the gun by the forestock, propped the butt against her shoulder and hooked her forefinger onto the trigger. The dot was barely visible, maki
ng it doubly hard for her to reconcile it with the gun sight. She shifted the firearm a few times, her shoulder beginning to cramp from its weight.

The women in the audience fell into complete silence. The men, in turn, punctuated the tension with occasion
al droll comments.

"Relax your shoulder," she heard Andrew say behind her.

"Don't distract me," she said irritably, her insecurity on her ability to deliver a good shot increasing her apprehension.

"I'm not," he replied, in a gentle tone. "You're gripping
the forestock too high. Level it with the stock and straighten the barrel—or you'll miss the target."

Alexandra did not reply, but she grudgingly accepted his advice and lowered the barrel a notch, then re-checked her sight.

"That's better," Andrew whispered, in a voice that soothed her dented aplomb.

She released the safety lock and pulled the trigger.

The target rattled.

The man in charge ran up to conduct an inspection.

He grinned and gave her a thumb up sign.

Her bullet had successfully clipped half of
the red dot.

The women cheered, chattering noisily in excitement.

"Not bad," Andrew said, as the used target was removed in place of a new one.

"Be ready to wear a rose in your hair," she chaffed saucily, touching the fragrant bloom above her ear.

"Thank you, but no," he moved closer, peering at her with those gorgeous green eyes. "I'd rather kiss you—with or without an audience," he traced the outline of her lips with a forefinger.

Alexandra trembled at his touch. Her surroundings blurred as her senses res
ponded to the man in front of her. Win or lose, she'd rather kiss him—in fact, she wanted him to do it now—to hell with the contest!

"Ahoy, my lord!" A man yelled from the crowd. "It ain't time for the prize yet!"

Good-natured heckling and laughter followed his comment.

Andrew chuckled, deep dimples etched on his cheeks as he tapped the tip of her nose with his forefinger, before he turned to pick up the rifle from his table.

Alexandra watched as he expertly maneuvered the weapon into the correct position, checking the sight for not more than two seconds before pulling the trigger.

The audience went still.

The man in charge rushed to the easel and inspected the target. He uttered a curse and shook his head.

Absolute silence descended on the tent.

"My lord," the man swiveled around, holding the target up, eyes wide with amazement. "Your shot— it is perfect!"

The crowd, including the women, whistled, and cheered, a number of them sauntering towards the man in charge to inspect the bullet's exit for themselves.
Several men came up to congratulate Andrew and expressed their respect for Alexandra's talents.

"Well, I think it's time I claim my prize," Andrew said as the people milling about them thinned.

"Here?" Alexandra glanced around, unnerved. It was a very public place.

Andrew followed her gaze and acquiesced. "Alright. Perhaps later
—but I must warn you. I expect payment with interest."

Alexandra felt the heat rush to her cheeks. She could not say
no to something she had initiated in the first place. As the loser, she owed him a kiss. And as for the interest—

"What kind of interest?" She asked warily.

He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close, a fiery glint in his glorious green eyes.

Alexandra waited with bated breath, conscious of the hard planes of his muscles and the maddening aroma of cedar with a hint of mint, clinging to his skin.

"I want you," he took one of her hands that she had unconsciously laid on his broad chest and kissed the pulse hammering erratically on her wrist.

Alexandra followed his movement with her eyes and met his gaze. Her heart had lost its rhythm and her belly tingled with a warm rush that inflamed the feminine softness between her legs.

"You want—m-me?" She squeaked, though she'd heard him clearly and understood exactly what he was asking.

"U-hum," his expression sobered and she recognized the flare of desire in his eyes, in the set of his mouth and the slight furrow on his brow.

She knew it would come to this. The unmistakable physical attraction between them was apparent from the very beginning. Those stolen kisses were never unintentional. Both of them were well aware where those kisses would eventually lead, but were powerless to rein in their passion, much less prevent their growing desire for each other.

Alexandra knew the gravity of taking the next step, but it was not too late for her to refuse. She could hold her ground and rebuff him. Forget everything that had happened between them. Pack her bags a
nd leave. Return to her father, who would no doubt waste not another minute to find another suitable dimwit to match her with.

Could she make herself jump overboard from the burning ship and deny the refuge of heaven being offered by her pirate angel who h
ad come to her rescue?

She cupped his cheek with her hand and he turned a little, just enough to graze his lips against her palm.

A silent request; a subtle persuasion.

She could see it all in his eyes.

Did she have the strength to reject him? Yes—if she hit herself over the head with a mallet to erase his image from her mind, or if she stopped breathing to keep the scent of him from dwelling in her lungs.

"Anna
—" his voice had dropped several octaves lower. A restrained plea—but with implicit urgency nonetheless.

She caressed his lower lip with her thumb, arresting what he was about to say.

Questions reverberated in her thoughts. What would happen if she capitulated? What could she lose—her blasted virginity? For whom was she saving it for anyway? Would she rather give it to her future unknown toad-of-a-husband-to-be, or surrender it to Andrew—the sum epitome of the dashing heroes in her books, except for the valet part— before her maidenhead gathered cobwebs and turned moldy?

"When?" The word spilled from h
er mouth in a soft gush.

A slow smile rose from his lips, spreading widely until his dimples formed deep round indentations on his cheeks.

"Tonight," he whispered, catching her thumb with his teeth and giving it a gentle nibble that sent shivers down her spine.

Tonight
. Alexandra felt an odd contentment settle over her in spite of her awareness that she was venturing into dangerous territory. Her papa would be horridly scandalized if he discovered the truth, but though she loved him dearly, she was tired of being managed and longed to escape from under his thumb. Now, by some twisted coincidence resulting from her ruse, she had unexpectedly garnered fourteen short days of freedom.

Freedom.
She inhaled the cool breeze to savor its meaning, feeling for once in her life, she could truly breathe.

Andrew placed an arm around her shoulders and they strolled to the other tents.

She glanced up at him, suddenly realizing that, this is what freedom felt like—a thrill from the simple touch of the man of her own choosing.

He smiled sideways at her and she glimpsed what freedom looked like
—curly lashed green eyes she could forever admire and dimples so adorable, she could never tire of kissing them all the time.

Sweet, sweet, freedom
.

It would be hers
—
tonight
.

The First Night

"I
'll see you in a half hour," Allayne helped Alexandra alight from the carriage near the stables a short distance away from Countess Penthorpe's manor.

He had given her directions to come to Mister Carl
yle's bedchamber tonight for their tryst. His master would be out for the rest of the night until early morning, he had told her, attending a soiree directly after the fair with all the other guests at the home of Viscount Stanton in town, a friend of the countess. The timing couldn't have been more ideal. Save for the help, they would have the whole house to themselves.

Alexandra nodded and made her way to the back door of the main house, the entrance commonly used by servants.

It had been a wonderful day.

They had spent the entire afternoon at the fair and as the sun sank into the horizon, he took her to one of the elegant establishments for dinner. She had felt a little guilty at the extravagant fare he ordered. He must be spending far more than he could
afford, but she said nothing to embarrass him.

The ride back to the manor had been sweet and exhilarating. They did not talk much, but they kissed and snuggled inside the carriage, anticipating their night together.

"Ain't ye Lady Alexandra Davenport's Abigail?" One of the maids called to Alexandra as she entered the door leading to the kitchen.

"Er, yes," Alexandra closed the door behind her and regarded the plump woman who was carrying an enormous load of newly laundered dresses. "Is there
anything I can help you with?"

"Aye, 'bout time ye do dat, lass. Yer ladyship's clothes been pilin' up me laundry room. 'Ere," she handed Alexandra the mountain of garments. "Press 'em wi' dat iron whilst them coals is 'ot."

Alexandra gaped at the heap in her arms and exclaimed, "Right now?"

"Aye. Wer do ye tink ye is, foolin' 'round in yer fancy frock? Da Manor 'otel?" The laundry maid made an exasperated gesture with her hands. "Off ye go now, lassie. Me needs me racks fer mor o' them dresses. Me ladyship
an' 'er guests keep meself busy, me tell ye."

~

A little, more than a half hour later, Allayne hurried to his rooms at the far end of the second floor. He had reiterated his instructions to his footman and coachman to keep mum about the charade, and had
taken longer than necessary to get away from the housemaids who relentlessly flirted with him.

A modicum of relief washed over him as he finally reached his bedchamber. He was delayed not more than five minutes, but that could be enough to turn away his be
autiful Anna from his bed.

He turned the knob with a soft click and peered inside.

The fire in the hearth had burned down to glowing embers, shrouding the chamber in shadows. Allayne waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom until gradually, the furnishings began to take shape in the darkness.

His gaze landed on the enormous four-poster bed.

A slim figure lounged beneath his white bedding, pale naked shoulders peeking over the edge of the linens.

Anna.

He hastily undressed and slipped under the sheets next to her on the bed. She was breathing steadily, lying on her side facing away from him.

Poor darling, he grinned, placing an arm around her waist. She must have been exhausted from the long day.

He kissed an exposed shoulder.

She stirred with a sigh.

Encouraged, Allayne pressed himself closer against her back.

She responded with another heavy sigh.

He planted a kiss on her nape.

She moaned, mumbling words he couldn't understand.

He trailed kisses from her shoulder to the side of her neck.

She giggled.

Allayne smiled to himself. His Anna had been awake the whole time. He rubbed his now inflamed member against her backside.

She groaned and wiggled her bottom.

Allayne couldn't abide the teasing any longer. He boldly moved his hand from her waist and squeezed her breast.

She arched her back, pressing herself against his palm with a soft whimper.

Allayne felt for her breast again and frowned. Had he misjudged Miss Banana's endowments? He could swear, her bosoms were as big as melons—or did she do something with her corset to make them look larger than they were?

Another squeeze yielded nothing but paltry flesh.

Holy smelly Moses
, he noticed the coarse mat brushing against the palm of his hand covering her breast—is she flat and—God forbid—
hairy chested
?

His erection wilted.

Should he light a candle and inspect the delicacies she offered or should he just keep his mouth shut and pretend it didn't matter? Nevertheless, he did not have time to cogitate any further. Anna seemed to enjoy his groping and reached backwards, burying her fingers in his hair as she pulled his head closer for a kiss.

Allayne did not resist.

In the gist of things, a flat, hairy chest hardly made a difference. What he really wanted to do was to shoot his rapidly stiffening pistol at Miss Banana's juicy target—her virginal maidenhead.

He propped an elbow to raise himself just enough to meet her half-turned lips. She was eager and hot, plunging her tongue into his mouth a little too aggressively, it somewhat surp
rised him.

Allayne cradled her cheek with one hand and caressed her jaw line with his thumb to calm her down. Her skin felt oddly scraggly. Christ
—was she one of those peculiar women who grew a beard? And she tasted like—what the devil—
ale
? She did not seem to be the type to prefer it over wine or champagne.

He slid his fingers through her hair. It felt soft but sparse. Her long tresses and ringlets seemed to have gone missing. In the span of a half hour since he had last seen her
—did she decide to cut it shorter?

A strange feeling crept in Allayne's lust-fogged brain before it quickly turned into dread.

He abruptly pulled away.

"Anna?" The fleece on the back of his neck stood on end even as he uttered her name.
Sweet Lucifer,
please don't let it be who he thinks this person is—

A goose-bump inducing silence ensued as they stared at each other in the gloom.

"Andy?" Allayne heard himself say in a voice sounding bizarrely disembodied from the rest of him.

"S-sir?"

Another stunned silence.

Then, at exactly the same time
—both of them screamed.

The whole house rattled as they sprang away from each other, scrambling off in such haste that the two of them fell bottom-first on the carpeted floor on either side of the bed.

~

In the servant's area downstairs, the butler paused in mid-sentence, the laundry maid stopped in mid-wash and the cook halted with her cleaver suspended in mid-air.

Alexandra looked up from her ironing, a task she pretended to be proficient in and asked, "What was that?"

They all looked at each other. The loud thud upstairs certainly was alarming.

The butler placed a forefinger against his lips, urging them to be silent.

They all jumped at the sound of another crash.

"Thieves!" the laundry maid said, "I tell ye, Mister Butt
-ocks, them thieves come to rob us an' tie us all up—"

"An' ravish us!" Cook added, bloody cleaver still in hand.

"Ye tink?" The laundry maid beamed, displaying a missing front tooth. "Then put away 'em bloody hatchet! Me knows nothin' 'bout ye, but me needs some serious tuppin', if ye catch me meanin'," she waggled her brows tellingly at Cook.

Cook's plump, freckled face lit up. She immediately replaced the broad-bladed knife next to the chunk of meat on the butcher's block.

"Really, Mabel," the butler gave the laundry maid a reproachful glare. "Your brilliance astounds me."

"Tank-ye, Mister Butt-ocks."

"Mister Botocks, Mabel! Fifteen years and your tongue is still as twisted as a sailor's knot. By the by—do you know what the thieves will do after they ravish you?"

Mabel shook her head.

"Eh..." Cook searched the ceiling in deep thought, "them ravish ye too?"

"Gud fer ye, Mister Butt-ocks!" Mabel exclaimed. "Fifteen years an' me ne'er seen ye git tupped. Dat ain't wise fer ye constitution, ye know. Makes ye g
rouchy an' restless an' all. Might as well pickle yer damn cucumber if ye ain't goin' to use it."

"Vinegar an' sugar," Cook nodded, "an' a sprinkling o' pepper in a cannin' jar."

Alexandra emitted an unlady-like snort.

"You imbeciles!" The butler yelled. "After they ravish you, they will cut your throa
—!"

A flurry of footsteps and repeated thumping froze the butler's words. "Grab your weapons!" he commanded in panic. "Of all days, I gave the footmen and most of the staff
the day off today! We'll have to defend the manor by ourselves!"

Cook picked up her cleaver, Mabel got her laundry board, and Alexandra took her iron.

"Mister Butt-ocks needs 'em tea cup and a silver fork," Mabel snickered under her breath.

"Or them mummi
fied cucumbers in da cu'board," Cook replied.

Alexandra stifled her laughter. Who would have known she would have this much fun and adventure with the servants downstairs? It almost made up for her disappointment in missing her tryst with Andrew. She wonde
red about their own house help at home in Weston Abbey. Are they this amusing and comical too? Perhaps she should spend more time getting to know them when she gets back.

"Sshhh!" The butler glanced back at them with a glower as they made their way up to t
he servant's stairs into the dimly lit hallway, leading to the second floor bedchambers.

The noise could be heard more distinctly in the left wing corner of the house.

They tiptoed in a single file, stooped right behind each other with the butler in the lead.

"Me saints, Mister Butt-ocks," Mabel whispered. "Yer arse looks tasty 'nough to make a wench crow."

"Das no fair," Cook complained from behind Mabel. "All me can see is yer wretched, fat arse."

Alexandra, the last in line, giggled.

"Quiet!" The butler rasped from the front.

A loud thud echoed from somewhere further down the corridor.

They scurried silently in a train-like manner towards that direction.

A curse and what sounded like furniture hitting the floor emanated from a door.

The butler screeched to a halt.

"Och! Fer Christ's sakes, Mister Butt-ocks," Mabel said in a muffled voice. "Why'd ye suddenly stop? Ye gots me nose shoved in yer butt-crack!

"Ow Lud, Mabel!" Cook slapped Mabel's posterior. "Will ye quit fartin'? Me gots me face stuck in yer arse with me mouth open!"

"Quiet!" The butler muttered louder than he should, grabbing the lone branch of candles from a side table along the hallway.

~

Inside the bedchamber, Andy and Allayne were on their hands and knees groping in the dark for the matchsticks that must have fallen somewhere in the commotion.

"Ow! You dope!" Allayne cursed as he butted heads with Andy. "What are you doing here? I told you to look on the other side of the bed!"

"I-I-I'm sorry Sir," Andy wailed. "B-b-but, I'm afraid of the dark."

"You're afraid of
—" Allayne uttered a louder curse. He was so disgusted with himself for kissing a man that he would scrub his tongue with a towel and soap until it was raw, as soon as he located the washbasin. And now, to add to his dilemma, Andy wouldn't stop following him. "You were here by yourself before I came in, you idiot!"

"Y-yes Sir, but I had t-the fire going," Andy replied in a trembling voice. "Now, everything is dark and for sure the monsters are going to eat us!"

"What nonsense!" Allayne yelled and pushed him away. "Will you stop crowding me? We need to find those matchsticks so we can get dressed!"

"S-sir, there's a s-shadow over there," Andy glued himself to his side even more.

"That's your shadow, you jackanapes!" Allayne rolled his eyes in the dark, wishing the clouded quarter moon would provide more than the meager illumination coming through the windows of the bedchamber. "Alright, enough of this!" He drew himself up to a standing position and began to feel his way towards the door. He should have just run naked outside and grabbed a branch of candles in the first place, instead of fumbling in the dark with a damn buffoon who was afraid of monsters.

"S-sir?" Andy called when he was almost halfway to the door. "
W-where are you?"

"Stay here. I'll be right back," Allayne stifled an oath as he stubbed his toe on the foot of a table.