Lois Greiman (14 page)

T
he carriage rumbled along again. Megan wrapped the cloak closer about her. She looked small and pale against the tufted black upholstery.

“We’ll be there in a matter of minutes,” Nicol assured her. He was hoping to help her relax, but her face looked strained in the flickering light of the square-paned lantern that swayed languidly beside the door. She didn’t turn toward him immediately but continued to stare out the window where the fog lay cool and heavy across the rolling landscape.

She drew a deep breath. They had been all but silent since their meal in the woods, but she turned toward him now, her green eyes solemn in the flickering light. “What if they tell?”

Nicol didn’t pretend to misunderstand her meaning. “What if they tell others they have seen me alone with the princess?”

“Yes.”

“They won’t.”

“So they are so trustworthy that they would keep even this silent?”

He shrugged but kept his shoulder pressed against the firm cushion of the door. “Will has secrets of his own.”

“And the other fellow?” she asked, though Cole was certain she remembered his name.

“Will shall make certain Cask keeps the news to himself,” he assured her, but the worry remained on her regal features. “In truth,” he said. “I’ve been alone with the princess many times. I am, after all, her trusted—”

“In the woods?” she asked, her voice charged with emotion. “With no chaperone, sitting close together in the failing light?”

Perhaps it was a good thing his friends came along when they did, for they
had
been sitting close together. He remembered the feel of her skin beneath his fingertips. Remembered the soft look in her eyes. What a fool he would be to fall for this girl.

“You could view this as a roaring success,” he said,

“Could I?” The emotion was suddenly drained from her voice, replaced by perfect inflection, as if she were a bit curious, yet just short of disdain.

“Cask has met Tatiana many times and never for a moment doubted that you were she.”

“Perhaps. But he has probably not met her in two places at once.”

He nodded in concession. “True, but they are not likely to gallop back and check her private chambers. They believe you were with me and will have no reason to doubt the fact.”

He could almost see the thoughts racing through her mind. “And you are often in the woods with young, unescorted women?”

Her tone was stiff, but he could not tell the reason. Had she so completely taken on the role of Tatiana, or was she truly miffed? “Not often in the woods,” he said.

Her nostrils flared slightly. “You, my lord, are a—” she began, but at that moment the carriage slowed.

“We’re here, lass,” he said and rose to his feet. The door swung open as if on its own, but she remained exactly as she was, except, perhaps, for a slight widening of her eyes.

“’Tis only my home, lass. Not the palace.”

“What of the servants?”

“They are not expecting us and will surely be abed, but even if they should see you, they’ll think nothing of it. They would not recognize you, lass, even if you were the princess.”

“So who will they think I am?”

He shrugged. “A friend.”

“Your paramour.”

“Better that than a thief, don’t you suppose?”

“No,” she said, her gaze level. “I do not.”

He grinned, liking the stiff condescension in her voice, and stepped outside to reach for her hand. After a moment’s hesitation, she took it. “If I were not such a heartless man I might be insulted,” he informed her.

She gave him a glance from the corner of her eye and stepped regally into the misty night.

“If you were not such a heartless man, I would yet be safely back at the Lion’s Share,” she said. They were inches apart. He could smell the scent of lavender on her skin.

“It is lucky then,” he said, and pulled up her hood, “that I am so callous.” His thumbs brushed her cheeks. In the cool spring darkness, her face was no more than a blush of pale color in the night. Like an ivory statuette, as cool as marble, as untouchable as the mist. And for a moment he missed the woman she had been, the unpredictable scrapper he had discovered at a cloth merchant’s stall. But of course that was foolish. Pulling his hands away, he bowed and motioned toward his front door.

Not another word was spoken as he followed her into the house.

“My lord.” Mrs. Melrose strode down the hall toward him. Her hollow cheeks were as pale as birch bark and her hair perfectly aligned beneath the starched mobcap. “I didn’t realize you were coming home tonight, sir. Had you sent word, I would have seen that supper was hot and your bedsheets freshened.”

“We ate earlier,” Nicol said. “And I wasn’t certain when we would arrive. My apologies for awakening you at this late hour.” He said the words dismissively and nodded as he did so, but Melrose pursed her narrow lips and watched him carefully.

“’Tis late for you to be out and about, my lord.”

He straightened his back slightly and managed not to shuffle his feet like a recalcitrant boy. “’Tis nothing to concern yourself with, Mrs. Melrose. You may return to your bed.”

She raised a brow at him, reminding him that she slept even less than he. Indeed, as far as he knew she simply stood in a corner like a silent sentry until dawn, but she ran his household like a seaworthy frigate. Not a fork unpolished or a dust mote to be found. If he never returned to Newburn again, it would be run with fluid efficiency until the day Mrs. Melrose was put in the ground. If, indeed, that eventually ever occurred.

“And who might this be?” she asked, her chin impossibly high. She stood slightly taller than Nicol himself. In fact, he’d once considered commissioning boots with higher heels just to even the score, but he had reminded himself he was a viscount and well above such childish antics. He regretted that decision just now.

“You needn’t bother yourself, Mrs. Melrose,” he said, and just managed to stifle the word “please.”

“It is no bother,” she said, turning her head like an automaton. “What is your name, girl?”

Perhaps there was a slight rasp of surprise from inside the
hood. Nicol rushed to help her. “This is Lady Joanna, baroness of Kirksway and my cousin, twice removed, Mrs. Melrose.”

The widow gave him a narrow look, but he continued on, keeping up his rhythm.

“She just arrived in our fair city and needed accommodations during her sojourn. I thought it best if she wasn’t forced to hire a room.”

“Hire a room.” She all but growled the words, and Nicol almost sighed with relief as she turned her potent attentions on the girl. “Certainly not.” She paused. “Give me your wrap, and I shall show you to your room,” she said, and reached for the girl.

Megan stepped cautiously backward. “I’ll keep my cloak if you don’t mind, Mrs. Melrose.”

“You should not have been out so late in this chill weather.” After one accusatory glance at Nicol, she pivoted on her heel like a well-trained soldier. “Come along,” she ordered, “I shall show you to your room while Margaret…” A harried abigail appeared instantaneously as if conjured out of thin air. “…fetches your tea.”

“That is unnecessary. As I said—” Nicol began, but Mrs. Melrose cut him off.

“I assume your driver will be bringing up her trunks?”

“Yes.” He had inherited Mrs. Melrose with the house after his uncle’s death and had never quite managed to feel like an adult in her presence.

“I shall see that he doesn’t dawdle. Here then,” Swinging a door inward, she indicated the chamber with a pragmatic sweep of her hand. “I hope you’ll find everything to your liking.”

Megan scanned the room, lighting on the four-poster bed, the delicately scrolled desk, the flowered carpet, the linen wall covering. “Everything is perfect.”

Mrs. Melrose stared at her a moment, then, against all
odds, she almost seemed to smile before nodding sharply. “I shall send Becky up to help you with your garments.”

“There’s no need for that,” Nicol said. “I’m sure Joanna—”

“I’ll not have it said that the welcome at Newburn is lacking,” Mrs. Melrose insisted, her fingers entwined in front of her stiffly starched skirt.

“The welcome is most gracious,” Megan said. “But I am quite tired. Perhaps Becky could see to my clothes on the morrow.”

The older woman delayed a moment before acquiescing. “As you wish,” she said simply. “I shall see that your fire is lit and your bed turned down.”

For a moment Nicol thought Megan might refuse. Worried this might cause an all-out war, he stepped into the chasm. “Thank you, Mrs. Melrose. And please have Becky bring up a tray for the lady’s breakfast in the morning.”

“Yes, Lord Newburn,” she said, and, with the slightest inclination of her head, strode away.

They were left alone in the hallway, staring at each other like a pair of mindless fools.

“I would suggest you get into bed before the maid arrives, lass,” he said. “She’ll not disturb you.”

Megan nodded and turned away.

Once in his own chambers, Nicol poured himself a bit of port, swirled it about in its round bowl, and stared into the fire. All was going well thus far. From two doors down the hall, he heard Becky knock at Megan’s door and pricked his ears to hear. Her voice was a soft murmur of sound, and in a moment the maid was inside. He heard the bump of wood in the grate, another murmur of voices, and finally the sound of Becky exiting.

Yes, everything was going well. They were almost there. And they would succeed, for even his friends had been
fooled. Aye, they had been a bit intoxicated, but so was half of Europe. If they could fool the barons, they could fool anyone.

And tomorrow…tomorrow the girl would be in the palace. Then the most difficult piece of the puzzle would be in place, for once she was there none would suspect her of being what she was. People saw what they expected to see. It was a well-known fact. He was, after all, accepted as a viscount, instead of the scruffy second son of a murderous bastard. Loosening his grip on the glass, Nicol turned his mind back to the girl. She would surely be accepted as a princess. All he had to do was get her safely to Hewton Theater on the following evening. It would be simple enough so long as—

A scrape of sound issued from somewhere down the hall. His blood froze. Surely she wouldn’t try to escape now. Not when they were so close. He was in the hallway in an instant, shoving her door open in a second.

Megan stood facing him, her back to the fire. Her face was alternately shadowed and illumined by the flickering light, and her glorious hair was a dark, wild mane, gilded by the living flame. Her eyes looked as bright and sharp as midnight stars, and her nightgown had become diaphanous, limning each angelic curve in golden light.

A noise sounded from somewhere downstairs, dragging Nicol back to reality. Stepping inside, he closed the door quietly behind him.

“All is well?” he asked.

She raised a single brow at him. “Of course, my lord,” she murmured. “What could be amiss?”

He crossed the floor and forced himself into the cushioned chair that stood farthest from the fire, farthest from the glowing temptation.

“I thought you might be worrying about tomorrow.”

“Worrying?” A fleeting smile crossed her face. Her teeth
gleamed for a moment in the fire, then disappeared behind her entrancing lips. “Worry not for the morrow,” she said. “For the morrow will surely have troubles of its own.”

“Such as meeting the princess?”

Her nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed and in that moment she looked like a wild vixen ready to flee. God’s bones, she was beautiful. Far prettier than the princess, if the truth be known, but her unusual beauty was something others wouldn’t see. He hoped.

“Have you ever considered that this may be madness?” she asked.

“Madness?” He found to some surprise that he had carried his port in with him and took a sip now, hoping to loosen the tension that had cranked tight in his midsection. “Surely not, lass.”

She shook her head, and though the movement was sedate, he sensed her worry, and somehow that worry soothed him. “I will only be impersonating a princess,” she said, and turned to pace the room.

The fire was beside her now, casting light across her back and the lovely curve of her buttocks. Even through her gown, he could see the crease between her cheeks. Good God, he wasn’t nearly drunk enough for this.

“…fool those who know her best.”

He realized she’d been talking just as she turned back toward him and threw the dramatic curve of her breasts into sharp relief. Good God. A saint wouldn’t be drunk enough for this.

“Have you nothing to say?” she asked.

He searched his mind and steadied his hand as he drank again. “’Tis for a good cause, lass,” he said, and marveled at the insouciance in his tone. Maybe he was truly a nobleman after all.

“You think some silly tryst is a good cause?” She shook
her head, casting her sable locks about the proud thrust of her shoulders. Perhaps he should have made Deirdre cut it shorter, but the act had already seemed like a mortal sin. Even so, a stray curl brushed an upthrust nipple. His body jerked. He took another drink in some desperation and found the glass empty.

“’Tis…” he began, but his voice squeaked, actually squeaked, and for two seconds he considered hiding under the bed, for the next five he thought about pulling her into his arms and doing the only thing that would make any possible sense. “’Tis a bit more than a tryst, lass,” he said, and gave her a sleepy look. His glass shook, so he set it aside and gripped the other arm of the chair as if it might blast into space at any given moment. “Sedonia’s future depends on this match.”

She turned fully toward him. Light from the fireplace glowed around her body, casting a halo atop her head, illuminating her arms, glowing like sunrise between her slim, shapely legs.

His body actually ached at the sight.

“Sedonia’s future,” she said.

He tightened his grip on the chair. “Yes.”

“So you’re willing to sacrifice her for your country.”

He kept his gaze steadfast on her face, but he couldn’t forget the silhouette of those flawless legs, couldn’t turn his mind from the image of them wrapped about his own. He was beginning to sweat. “On the contrary, lass, I’m hoping to save her.”