Miss Antiqua's Adventure (12 page)

“I believe you should perhaps be aware that my young sister is being unwillingly conveyed back to the seminary from which she has run away,” Vincent explained with the manner of a complacent elder toward a mischievous youngster.

An outraged gasp led to an immediate denial. “That is not true! I am not a schoolgirl!”

If anything had been needed to convince the innkeeper one way or the other, it was this denial. It was most obvious to him that the young lady was indeed a schoolroom miss. “Ah, sir, ’tis merely her high spirits, eh?” he said with a grin, much to Antiqua’s wrath.

“She is unfortunately given to high drama, but we trust she shall outgrow this with time,” Vincent said.

“Most likely, sir, most likely. In a year or two your sister will—”

“Stop discussing me as if I’m not here!” she broke in violently. “He is not my brother—I am an only child and both of my parents are dead—and I did not run away from school! I have not the least idea where this man is taking me and I
demand
you call for a justice!”

She looked and sounded quite desperate. A visible flash of doubt crossed over the landlord’s features and Vincent decided it was past time to settle the matter.

“Of course,” he said in a voice of utter
ennui
, “it’s a habit of mine to abduct tiresome children with their maids while in the midst of a half-dozen of my own servants.”

The landlord’s hearty chuckle admitted the ridiculousness of this vision and Antiqua flushed with anger. “I am not—”

“A child. Very well, Antiqua, if you are not, then please quit behaving as one,” Vincent interrupted, sounding precisely like one’s elder brother.

“Ah, sir,” the innkeeper said with sympathy, “’tis true my own daughter was much the same at that very age.” With an understanding smile, he bowed himself out of the room.

Throwing Vincent a look that spoke volumes, Antiqua sat smoldering. Vincent took a long draught at his ale, studying her with an appreciative shine in his eyes. Setting down his mug, he said pacifically, “Come, my dear—”

“I am not your dear!” she informed him in no uncertain terms. “What is more, I think it is perfectly horrid of you to tell that man such lies about me and to make him
laugh
at me.”

It was plain Miss Greybill had no wish to be conciliating. Vincent regarded her for a time, then inquired in a tone of sleepy interest, “Tell me, Brown-eyes, what did you intend? To walk back to Dover? Ah, yes, your unfortunate accident. You intend, then, to hire a coach, perhaps?”

“You need not sneer. You know very well I’m fully in your power and it is very like you to rub my face it.” For a flicker, she appeared daunted. Quickly reviving, she insisted, “The least you can do is tell me where we are going. And what you intend to do with me.”

He lounged in his chair. “I thought, dearheart, that I had made my intentions perfectly clear. As they are of nothing but the most honorable, I fail to see why you are sending me such dagger-looks.”

She aimed to wipe that mocking smile off his face. “Because you are not at all the sort of man I wish to marry.”

“Ah . . . then possibly you will enlighten me. What sort of man do you wish to marry.”

“Someone like—like,” she floundered, not actually having desired to wed any man of her acquaintance. But she finished with inspiration, “Like the Viscount Balstone.”

Her wish was fulfilled. His smile vanished and his blue eyes narrowed and sharpened, making her feel foolishly nervous. “And when, my dear, may I wish you happy?”

“Don’t be absurd,” she retorted. “I only desired you to know how far you are from being able to please me in that regard.”

“To be viewed as unlike Balstone as possible is a great compliment,” he responded with infuriating calm. His eyes locked with hers as he continued in a hard tone, “I would, however, have you understand one thing. I will in no circumstances allow you to come into the keeping of Balstone—or any other like him. Now or at any other time.”

Antiqua drew in her breath at the hint of menace in his voice. Here again was irrefutable evidence that the Viscount was Vincent’s sworn enemy. Now she wondered if this animosity had extended to Thomas Allen as well. One thing was for certain: Vincent did not mean to let her pass on her information to Balstone.

After a perceptible pause, she said, “You have nothing whatsoever to say with regard to my marriage, sir. Again I ask, where are we going?”

“I am taking you where I trust you’ll be kept out of mischief until our wedding,” he answered in his drowsy voice. He stood, placing her at a disadvantage. She looked up to meet his expression of arrogant authority. “If you’ve finished your wine, my love, I suggest we end this delightful discussion.”

He stepped forward, preparing to take her into his arms. Antiqua did not stop to think. The mockery in his eyes, his tone, his very manner goaded her beyond reason. She grasped the stem of her full wineglass and tossed the contents into his face.

Startled, he straightened and Antiqua flinched under the fulmination of his blazing blue eyes. For a dire moment, she feared she had gone beyond the line, but the naked fury slowly passed out of his eyes. With supreme self-control, Vincent removed a large square handkerchief from his pocket and calmly wiped the dripping wine from his face and jacket. Antiqua’s gaze fixed in horror on the stains showing clearly on his white cravat. She tried to speak, but found she could not. Her wrath had evaporated with her action and in its place she now felt deep compunction.

“Forgive me,” she whispered tremulously. “I didn’t mean—”

“What you need,” he remarked very softly, “is either a tremendous spanking . . . or this—”

In one swift motion, he seized her, pulling her up into his arms. His lips fiercely entrapped hers, stifling her protests, taking possession with heated intensity. She could not breathe nor even think, but only surrender herself to the series of delirious tremors coursing through her. The arms encircling her pressed tighter and tighter until she thought she must snap within his hold. His muscled chest crushed the softness of her breasts and still he scorched her with his tongue, his lips.

She heard a distant moan, uncertain if it came from herself or from him. Then, as suddenly as he had swept her up, he dropped her back into her chair. Without another word, Vincent spun on his heel and left her.

Her breath was still ragged, her mind still reeling when but a minute later Fawkes entered to carry her out to the chaise. She barely noticed when he lifted her, she did not see his lowered brows, his disapproving glare. Antiqua’s gaze was turned inward, seeing only her own response to Vincent’s punitive assault. To her shame, she knew that in the instant of his kiss, she would gladly have given up kith and kin, king and country for him. For a coldly calculating traitor. She knew she would have to summon up every reserve of willpower to refrain from loving him. The knowledge lowered her spirits further still.

* * * *

As the miles stretched out, so too did Antiqua’s nerves. Wondering in earnest where he could be taking her, Vincent’s declaration to keep her out of mischief until their wedding now loomed before her as a threat of evil proportions. Perhaps, she thought with mounting panic, like the villains in all the Minerva Novels she had read, he meant to lock her away in some secret tower. No opportunity for calming her unreasoning fright came, for their few stops lasted only long enough to effect a change of horses and Vincent never drew near.

Over the hours, she indulged her imagination until Vincent assumed alarming characteristics. She feared he would carry through his threat to marry her. Then she feared he would not, but would merely use her, and discard her as coolly as he had discarded his stained handkerchief.

The sun had gone down long before they reached the outskirts of London. The noisy traffic on the London streets slowed their progress to such a pace that when the carriage finally drew to a halt, she did not at first realize it. Feeling alone in her darkened corner with her disturbing thoughts, Antiqua had reached a pitch of mental turmoil which utterly precluded rationality. When she looked out the small window to see an ill-lit townhouse towering above the street, her terrors swelled and she barely smothered a scream.

Wrenching open the door, Vincent nimbly entered and reached for her.

“No!” she gasped, shrinking into the seat.

“My God, what new start is this?” he muttered in weary exasperation. “I’d think you’d be as eager as I to end this journey.”

Getting command of herself, Antiqua reluctantly stretched out her arms to him. His nearness as he lifted her caused her to tremble. How could he feel so warm, so safe? He should be the last person on the face of the earth to comfort her so.

Through the darkness, she saw the glimmer of white marble steps, then a brighter light as a door yawned wide to greet them. She was conveyed into a well-appointed hall, but she could take in no detail as Vincent passed through a set of double doors into a large and splendid drawing room. A small, very fair woman leaped up from a chair, her pretty mouth opened in surprise, a needlework frame dangling limp from her hand.

“Jack!” she cried. “What—?”

“I have brought you a guest, my dear,” he said placidly, as if it were the most natural thing to stroll in unannounced, after a year’s absence, with a lovely girl in his arms.

Antiqua looked from the astonished woman to the taut face of the man who was even now setting her upon a very elegant rosewood and satin sofa. She noted the respectability of the room and her relief was nearly as immense as her confusion. What manner of villain was Vincent? She was not to be locked in a dark tower, she was not to be murdered or even abused. She was to be left with this pretty, kind-looking woman in this quite unexceptional house. Her tension and exhaustion burst through her and found release in a sudden flood of tears.

Chapter 11

Lady Julianne Winthrop sat, banked by a mound of fluffy pillows, in the center of a carved poster bed. Her feathery blonde hair fell loosely over her lace-covered shoulders and her fair brows came together over her frowning blue eyes. Nibbling with disinterest on a buttered muffin, Lady Julianne stared thoughtfully at the embellished edge of her ruffled peignoir. Her apparently intent absorption in her lace was interrupted by the muted sound of a door. Looking quickly toward the entrance that only one person used, the frown vanished in favor of a smile at once both girlish and womanly.

“Oh, Giles! I was
never
more glad to see you—although, of course, I am
always
glad to see you, my love!”

The man to whom this incoherent, but fervent, speech was addressed paused within the frame of the door, gazing at his wife with warm appreciation in his hazel eyes. Everything, from the cut of his claret morning coat to the gloss of his dark boots, bespoke excellence, both in taste and tailoring. The graying hair was cropped short, showing a wide brow tracked with a pair of lines, while deep creases marked the corners of his eyes.

Sir Giles came forward, asking in a tone of calm interest, “Indeed, my dear? And may I venture to inquire as to the cause for this rapturous reception?”

“It’s
Jack
!” she replied, putting out her hands. “And he has done the most
astonishing
thing!”

Winthrop took her hands into his own, bent to kiss them, then straightened to query, “Are you telling me, my love, that Vincent has returned to England?”

“Yes, and I could have boxed his ears!” Lady Julianne answered with spirit.

The vision of his tiny wife boxing her beloved younger half-brother on the ears brought a smile to Sir Giles’s lips. “I begin to wish I had not lingered at White’s last night. Tell me what Vincent has done to put you in such a temper.”

“After more than a twelvemonth away, he walked in last night—unannounced and as cool as you please, you know his way!—and deposited a lovely girl on my settee, telling me he had brought me a guest. A guest, Giles, with a bandaged foot and tears quite gushing from her eyes!”

“And who, my pet, is this lovely girl he brought us?”

“I’m sure I cannot tell you! It’s utterly
provoking
of Jack! The poor girl was thoroughly done up and sobbing her heart out, so I cannot be certain I heard correctly. But I think she said Jack
forced
her to accompany him from France.”

Consternation mingled with disbelief shadowed her husband’s eyes, but Lady Julianne did not appear to notice this. She played nervously with the ruffle on her sleeve and continued in some agitation, “She seems to hold him in aversion. Well, it is not to be wondered at if he did indeed abduct her and then shoot at her.”

“Shoot at her?”

“Well, dear,
that
is what she said he did, but then when I exclaimed over my own brother having done such a wicked thing, she went quite white and refused to say anything more to the matter.” Lady Julianne frowned a little. “I did not feel it quite right to press her, for whatever happened, it was obvious she had been through a trial. So I had her carried up to bed without even getting her name.”

“Did not Vincent have something to say to these charges?” Sir Giles asked in a soothing voice.

The composed tone had its effect for when his wife answered, the flustered inflection had gone from her voice. “No. I gave him no chance, but sent him away immediately. I expect him to call this morning and I shall demand a
full
explanation.” She turned a pair of anxious blue eyes on her husband. “I realize it has become a habit with Jack to go about shooting people, but I don’t think it’s quite the thing for him to shoot young girls in the foot, do you, my love?”

“No, I would have to say it’s not quite the thing,” he agreed, admirably maintaining an even tone.

“I did not think so, either,” she said matter-of-factly. “But if indeed Jack has been abducting and shooting at that girl, then he
must
be made to do the right thing by her.”

Because she sounded sad, Sir Giles took her hand again and squeezed gently. “If, as you say, Vincent carried this girl from France against her will and then shot her—in the foot, was it?—then by all means, he shall be brought to book. But somehow, my dearest, I doubt if even Vincent has been so lost to propriety as to embroil us in such conduct.”