Miss Antiqua's Adventure (8 page)

She had no idea how many hours passed by as she contended with her maid’s misery and fought her own susceptibility to the wicked rolling of the ship. Sounds of furious activity floated faintly down to her, but it was not until a series of stamps and shouts was followed by a rushing clatter of chains that she had any notion of what was going on. Several jolts and then unbelievable stillness assured her that they had indeed anchored. They had reached England.

Within minutes the cabin door opened. If Antiqua experienced a pang of disappointment that the figure standing there was Oliver Fawkes, she did not show it. She merely gathered up her pelisse, hat and muff while he gathered her maid, then followed him mutely up the companionway.

A heavy rain was falling, but she did not seem to notice. She simply stood on the deck, gazing at the shoreline in astonishment.

“But this isn’t Dover!” she finally exclaimed.

“No, Miss,” Fawkes said. “The storm forced us to land south. This is Morcastle, Miss, and as ’tis well past noon, we’d best not delay.”

As he steered her down the gangway, Antiqua looked back over her shoulder and caught a glimpse of rain-glistened dark hair clinging damply to Vincent’s forehead. He returned her regard without expression. Then she was whisked into a waiting carriage where Lucy, still wobbling drunkenly, finally regained her speech, vowing never to set foot off England again, no, not even if Miss was to marry one of them heathen foreigners.

Some hot soup and the stability of hard ground did much to restore Lucy’s spirits, but Antiqua realized with a sinking heart that it would be impossible to keep to her plan of escape. Not only did Lucy need to rest before setting forth, but Antiqua reluctantly admitted that she did as well.

They were settled into a small, but clean and cozy chamber of the Golden Lion Inn. Antiqua was too tired to either know or care where Vincent might be. Listening to the rain pounding the roof with the hammers of the devil’s anvil, she fell asleep. When she awoke, she learned he had bespoken an early supper in a private room belowstairs.

When she entered this parlor some time later, Vincent had not yet arrived. Candles glowed, adding their light to that of the snapping fire, for though it was still early evening, the dark and stormy skies had necessitated the lighting much earlier than usual.

Light and shadow entwined over the white of her gown. The dress was the same one she had worn the previous night, and it was her best. Poor Lucy had not felt well enough to refurbish it, and Antiqua’s attempts to do so had failed to entirely eliminate its rumples and creases.

But Antiqua had no thought for the condition of her gown as she paced nervously before a rectangular table laid for two within the center of the modest room. Looking at it accusingly, she knew she would have to endure one more session alone with her enemy. Tonight she was determined not to forget he was just that—an enemy, a traitor, a man never to be trusted.

“A penny for your thoughts, Brown-eyes.”

“Oh!” Antiqua started at the soft statement and faced Vincent with every presentiment of guilt. “You startled me!”

“So it would appear.” He strolled up to her. His impeccable appearance did not evidence in the least his hours on the stormy sea. Every dark hair was brushed into place while his fitted gray jacket and black pantaloons were creased only where they ought to be. A fresh smell of soap told her he had bathed.

Gazing at this immaculate vision, Antiqua felt more crumpled than ever. Her eyes fixed upon the pleated lace trimming his snowy shirt. She sought for something to say, for she could not say she had been thinking of his own downfall at her hands.

He took pity on her and came to her rescue. “You were perhaps wondering what was taking me so long?” he suggested softly.

“Yes, yes, that was it exactly,” she agreed in relief.

“You must accept my apologies, my dear. I have been procuring a special license and can only now hope that our wedding day dawns brighter than our last night of singlehood.”

Antiqua blanched. She struggled to make a response. In the end she contrived in a strangled voice, “License?”

Seeming to enjoy her befuddlement, he held a chair out for her. “You cannot think I mean to marry you out of hand?”

She took the chair and found a measure of confidence returning. “No, Mr. Vincent, of course I thought no such thing. In point of fact, I truly did not think you meant to marry me at all.” Seeing his brows snap together, she added, “What I mean, is that I rather thought by now you’d have realized we need not get married at all.”

“By which you mean to say,” he returned as he took the seat angled next to hers at the table, “that you thought I had by now sobered.” Her vivid blush admitted the truth of this. He continued in a somber tone, “You must come to understand how greatly you would suffer if we did not marry. My own reputation is such that to have it known you were with me would quite thoroughly destroy your own. There is no alternative. Believe me, my dear, I have searched for one.”

She must remain calm, reasonable, she told herself. She must not blurt out that she knew this wedding was not for reputation, but for treason, a trap to keep her locked within his control. Tightly gripping her hands together, she fought to keep her emotional upheaval out of her voice. “But I do not see—”

“Antiqua, I would not harm you,” he said in a tone as gentle as a kiss.

The entrance of two servants forestalled any reply. For that moment, Antiqua wanted desperately to believe him. The look in his blue eyes even more than his husky tone as he said her name struck her, as it always did, with a longing to forget what she knew of him, with a yearning to discover what she did not.

They spoke of inconsequential matters throughout the meal, giving Antiqua time to regain her composure, time to search for a method to delay his plan of marriage. During a brief respite when the servants were absent, she said on a sigh, “I had always wished for a large wedding, you know.”

“If you so desire guests, my love,” he said amiably, “we could fetch Miss Sullivan from Dover.”

“Oh, definitely,” she returned without a pause. “But I’d have liked having other dear friends, friends such as the Allens. Particularly William Allen.”

If she had meant to surprise him, she succeeded in full measure. Vincent set down the glass he had placed to his lips and stared at her with such a look of astonishment that Antiqua squirmed. With a shade of defiance, she added, “Mr. Allen is a
particular
friend of mine.”

The methodical movement of the room’s porcelain and gilt clock tolled loudly. Vincent studied her with an expression so odd, Antiqua first colored, then went whiter than her gown. When he finally spoke, however, he merely said, “I am glad to hear it,” in a voice without inflection.

A servant wafted in to set a fruit tart before her. Feverishly, she wondered just what she had said wrong. There was nothing to be learned from Vincent’s face for he was once again as collected as ever. Her only course was to brazen it out.

With impatience, she pushed her dessert aside and, the instant the servant again vanished, inquired in what she hoped was a casual manner, “Have you something against Mr. Allen? You didn’t look at all pleased to learn of our friendship.”

“I am only sorry that your
particular
friend cannot be at our wedding.” He sipped his wine in a leisurely fashion, then looked from his glass to her face. “By the way, my dear, does Balstone know of this friendship of yours?”

She eyed him warily, suspecting a trick, but unsure which way the trap lay. “Why, no,” she said slowly. “Should he?”

He smiled as if at a joke. “I would have only thought that as Balstone and William Allen are one and the same, he would have been apprised of your close friendship.”

Her mouth worked several times without emitting a sound. At last she took refuge in anger, realizing that he must have known all along she was lying and had led her on for his own amusement. “How—how dare you!” she sputtered.

“Do not fret, Brown-eyes,” he rejoined in his contemptibly cool way. “We can still arrange for your
dear
friend, Miss Sullivan, to be present when we are wed. We shall journey to Dover in the morning and be married there.”

“Kindly rid yourself of the notion that I’ll be marrying you,” Antiqua said flatly. “I shall not. Not ever! What is more, I think you are—are utterly abominable!”

Her chair was sent flying back and she was on her feet. Vincent watched her stand quivering, then slowly rose to face her. “And as you, my little love, are given to play-acting and story-telling, we shall make a fine pair. Hold me in aversion, if you will. It makes no odds, Brown-eyes, for tomorrow you will be given the protection of my name, whether you wish for it or no.”

She whirled to leave, but her wrist was entrapped by a strong hand. She stared at it wide-eyed, feeling the brand of his bare touch travel up her arm like heated sparks.

“Come, Antiqua, if you are in some trouble, or have some problem, do not hesitate to tell me. We could deal well enough together if you could bring yourself to confide in me.”

This was it, she realized. This was his attempt to cozen her into telling him about Allen, the packet and everything. And gazing into those beautiful blue eyes, she was tempted, dear God in heaven, she was tempted to tell him whatever he wished to know.

“I have nothing whatever to confide in you, sir,” she said in a shaking voice. “If you will have the kindness now to release me?”

Vincent’s grip tightened. “If you cannot bring yourself to be a confiding wife, my sweet, may I advise that in future you strive at least to be an honest one? I will not tolerate falsehoods and I strongly suggest that you remember that.”

She stood glaring at him, hating herself for wanting to throw herself into his arms, hating him more because of it. After a tense moment which Antiqua thought she could not endure, Vincent at last freed her. She remained immobile, her eyes refusing to take in the red marks encircling her fine-boned wrist. Then, speechless, she twisted and fled to the door.

“Antiqua.”

He hadn’t raised his voice, but the directive was still there in his hard tone. She stopped and turned to look at him.

“Do not keep me waiting in the morning,” he warned her.

Antiqua found she had no voice with which to inform Mr. Vincent that he would be waiting until a certain hot spot froze over, so she exited wordlessly.

Chapter 8

“Did I not tell you he meant to serve me a trick?” Antiqua demanded of her maid. “He
knew
! He knew all the time that Viscount Balstone was William Allen.
That
is why he braved the storm to cross to England!
That
is why he insists we be wed immediately! Well, he’ll soon discover he’s not dealing with some namby-pamby miss who is all complaisance!”

At last Lucy found something with which she could totally concur. She was certain her furious mistress was no namby-pamby miss. She was equally certain Mr. Vincent was about to discover just how disobliging the young miss could be.

“He thought he could outwit me. He thought he could stop me from delivering the packet into All—Balstone’s hands,” Antiqua continued in a turbulent tone of voice. “Well, he’ll soon learn otherwise!”

Lucy felt compelled to utter a horrified objection. “Surely you never mean to return to France?”

Antiqua drew in a deep, calming breath. “No, I don’t think that would serve at all. We must get the information to someone of importance here in England as quickly as possible. Perhaps my grandfather—I don’t know. But what I do know is that we shall leave here well before dawn.”

She ignored Lucy’s squawk of protest and began pacing in a meditative manner. “Pack what you can in the small bandbox,” she instructed her maid. “I’m afraid we must abandon the remainder.”

“But the rain,” Lucy protested.

“Pooh! A little rain never hurt anyone,” Antiqua returned, deliberately ignoring the thundering storm outside.

* * * *

Fortune seemed disposed, if not to smile upon them, at least to cease frowning, for when they rose some few hours later, the worst of the storm had passed. Rain still fell, but no longer in sheets. And beyond the dark skies lay the glimmer of a brighter dawn.

Antiqua wakened with a stab of fear and stumbled, groping in the dark, to expel a sigh as she reached her goal and found the packet still tucked snugly in the lining of the muff. Once reassured, she did not linger but lit a candle and shook the resistant Lucy from her bed. Within minutes, she and her muttering maid had snuffed the candle and were stealthily removing from the Golden Lion Inn.

Their clandestine departure progressed unimpeded. They tiptoed through the gloomy shadows down the stairs and across the hall to the door. The heavy bolt scraped back with what seemed an alarming clatter and the two stood aghast for several seconds before dashing outside.

Exhilarated with her successful escape, Antiqua strode off into the blackness, throwing over her shoulder to Lucy as she did so, “Why, this rain is nothing at all! The merest mizzle!”

The merest mizzle it may have been, but even Antiqua was forced to admit the drizzly weather hampered their progress to no slight degree. In the forty or so minutes it took them to pass beyond the limits of Morcastle in what they hoped was a northerly direction, their dampened cloaks and skirts entrapped each step. After walking a full hour, the enchanting hat that Antiqua had been unable to resist wearing was a wreckage. The high crown was thoroughly flattened and the brim now served, it seemed, only as a funnel for the rain to run directly down the back of her collar. The wide red ribbons, once so jaunty and bright, now hung dejectedly round her chin. Her spirits, too, were as sodden as her clothes, for Lucy started at every sound and squeaked at every shadow until Antiqua could hardly bear it.

“
Must
you be so cow-hearted?” she queried tartly when her maid, stumbling upon an unseen branch, had once more shrieked shrilly into the night. “This is nothing more than a tree limb!”