Patrica Rice (15 page)

But the navy bed curtains pulled closed against the draft didn’t resemble the rose hangings on the bed she’d been given last night. She knew perfectly well she had never lain between the sheets of that other bed. Instead, she had willfully decided to make Michael kiss her.

Blanche winced at the memory of that decision. She must have been drunk. She would never touch punch again, not after two glasses of wine, anyway.

Maybe it had been just some cup-shot dream. Her hand swept the bed and found it empty. Maybe Michael had never lain there. He was perfectly capable of letting her sleep it off in his room while he disappeared into the stable. Surely he had the sense to put her aside as he had done since the day they met.

But she’d plied him with more drink than she’d consumed. He would have been well-addled by the time she’d climbed into his bed. And if the evidence of her body gave any testimony, what she remembered was not a drunken dream. She had done it. She had finally experienced the marriage act. And she had enjoyed it, just as Dillian had said she would if the right man came along. Of course, Michael was scarcely the right man in any other sense of the word, but for this purpose, he was perfect. She wanted to try it again in the bright light of day.

That gave her pause. If Michael had wanted to couple with her again, he would still be lying at her side. That he had pulled one of his disappearing acts didn’t bode well at all. Panic overcame any remaining shyness. She didn’t want to be left alone in a strange inn days from her home. Hastily fastening the ribbons of her bodice, Blanche leaned across the bed and peeked out the curtains.

Michael sat, fully clothed, in a chair between the fire and the window, his arms crossed forbiddingly over his wide chest. She’d seen him do that before, and it never meant anything good. With the light behind him, she couldn’t make much of his expression, and she was grateful for that reprieve. Michael set a high price on his principles.

“I’ve brought your clothes and ordered fresh water. You may dress while I call the carriage.” He sounded murderous.

He rose, and Blanche swallowed, realizing just how large he was. His lean build concealed the strength of ten men.

She didn’t object when he let himself out. She hadn’t known what to expect from him, but she hadn’t expect cold anger. Michael didn’t know the meaning of cold, and his anger usually found outlet in action, not contemptuous words. She felt as if she’d fallen even lower than the man who ordered the militia to shoot yesterday. She
was
lower than that man. She owned the mill that had made wretched slaves of those people.

That didn’t give Michael cause to treat her as if she were a piece of dirt. They had shared something beautiful last night. Why couldn’t he just admit that and go on?

Because despite all appearances to the contrary, Michael was a gentleman, and gentlemen felt obligated to treat ladies with honor. That meant after what they’d done last night, he’d have to offer her marriage.

Soberly, Blanche dragged herself from bed to the dressing screen. While she washed, she contemplated what she’d done.

She didn’t want to marry. Michael didn’t want to marry. So why was there any problem? She would just explain things, make him understand. She’d enjoyed what they’d done. She would like knowing more. She didn’t fear having a child out of wedlock. Her wealth could conceal anything. Michael had shown her how to create illusions by giving people what they expected to see, while he did as he pleased behind their backs. If he could do it, so could she.

Reaching that conclusion, Blanche recovered some of her equilibrium. She wanted to try coupling in the sunlight. In the carriage. Anywhere. Anytime. Her fingers grew clumsy with excitement as she tied her ribbons.

Michael didn’t return. Uneasy, Blanche hurried as best she could. Michael had brought her valise to this room. She donned her blue velvet traveling gown and fastened her hair in a loop tied with matching ribbons. She covered her head with a jaunty hat that did nothing to disguise her gold tresses. She had little vanity, but she knew what men liked. She would make Michael want her again.

She stopped in front of the mirror and grimaced at the faint red scars along her hairline, but she didn’t think Michael noticed them. Michael liked touching, and what he saw didn’t matter to him as much as what his other senses told him. She dabbed a little cologne to her wrists. She seldom wore it, but she would try anything to ease his anger.

Sweeping down the stairs with heart pounding, Blanche didn’t see anyone in the lobby, and she hastened to the inn door. The coach waited in the yard, the driver already in his seat. She was starved and would like breakfast, but she didn’t want to escalate Michael’s anger. Glancing around, she saw his horse tied to the back of the coach, and her heart lightened. He would ride with her today!

The innkeeper ran out bearing a brown paper-wrapped parcel that steamed in the early morning chill. Behind him a servant appeared with her trunk and tied it to the carriage.

“His lordship ordered up some ham and hot bread, my lady. And I’ve added some cheese and bacon with some of my wife’s good jam. It will keep you going awhile. It’s been a pleasure serving you and your lord, my lady. I hope you will return again.”

Astonished, Blanche took the package, then accepted the hand of the footman to help her into the carriage. Hot bricks waited on the floor to warm her feet. Michael had thought of everything. So where was the damned man?

And why were they suddenly
her ladyship
and
his lordship
? They’d traveled incognito all this way, pretending to be the wealthy children of a Northumberland squire. What on earth had Michael told them? And why?

She caught her breath on a gasp as Michael appeared in the inn yard carrying a steaming jug. He wore his most elegant beaver hat, curled at the brim and polished to the same gloss as his high top boots. An emerald swallow-tailed coat enhanced the breadth of his shoulders, and its cutaway tailoring emphasized the flatness and narrowness of his hips. He had no fancy watch or fobs, but the shimmering white of his cravat spoke of expensive tailors and an army of servants. Except she knew he had neither.

She swallowed hard, realizing she now knew what lay beneath those gentlemanly clothes. She had never considered a man’s naked body before, but now her thoughts couldn’t travel past Michael’s. Even as she flushed with embarrassment at the memory of what they’d done, she wanted to try it again.

Michael shook the innkeeper’s hand and crossed the yard to enter the carriage. Silently, he took the seat across from her, shrinking the interior with his presence. The driver let his horses have their heads, and the coach jerked into motion, nearly upsetting Blanche from the seat. She grabbed the hand grip rather than fall into Michael’s lap. The aroma of strong coffee struck her as she straightened.

Michael produced a pewter cup from thin air and poured coffee from the jug he’d carried. Blanche wanted to smack him for this nonchalant performance, but she’d already learned her lesson about instigating arguments with this man. He disliked drama or high emotion and disappeared in its wake. She must talk with him before he took it into his head to vanish again.

“I don’t suppose you could produce another cup while you’re at it?” she asked, eyeing the steaming mug with thirst.

He silently handed her his.

She looked down at it, then up at him. She couldn’t ever remember drinking from the same cup as anyone else. Meeting his mocking eyes and remembering what they had done last night, she blushed. It scarcely mattered if they shared a cup after last night. They’d certainly shared everything else. She drank thirstily.

“Save some for me,” he said dryly. “I don’t think your head is as painful as mine.”

Blanche returned the mug and dabbed at her lips with a handkerchief. “I am sorry for that. I think they made the punch recipe too strong.” She kept her gaze lowered as she opened the parcel in her lap.

“That’s stating it mildly.”

She regretted the tension between them. Michael had always made her laugh or think or took her away from whatever bothered her most. Cautiously, she handed him some bread and ham on a linen napkin the innkeeper had thoughtfully provided. When he didn’t take it, she was forced to look inquiringly at him.

“My stomach won’t tolerate food right now,” he told her honestly. “I don’t hold my liquor well.”

Blushing, Blanche glanced back at her lap. She took full responsibility for what had happened last night. But she didn’t know how to explain that in the bright light of day.

“Why did the innkeeper call me
my lady
?” she asked instead.

“The maid thought you’d been kidnapped when you weren’t in your room this morning. I had to convince them that we were just recently married and keeping it a secret until we reached our families. It also helped when I called myself Lord Michael. Apparently, the nobility are inclined to strange fits and starts.”

Blanche smiled at this return of the Michael she knew. He had a tale covering any circumstance. But his tone remained empty and distant. Her apology hadn’t begun to touch the surface of his anger.

“I am sorry I got you drunk, and I am sorry if I caused you any embarrassment.” Not knowing what else to say, she bit off some of the ham and bread as an excuse for not saying more.

The silence in the carriage grew longer. The noise of the galloping horses drowned out any early morning birdsong. The trunk clattered against the back of the carriage. One of the rear wheels squeaked. But still, the silence was deafening.

When she’d finished chewing, Michael interrupted her before she could take a second. “Why did you do it?”

Startled, Blanche finally lifted her gaze to his. She read nothing in his expression. She didn’t even see curiosity there. She’d never seen him quite so remote. The man across from her had become an enigmatic stranger. A handsome stranger, admittedly, but someone she could never have guessed existed inside the charismatic man she knew.

She dropped her gaze again. “I wanted you to kiss me again.” She couldn’t offer anything less than honesty, if this were her punishment. She owed him that.

“You wanted...” He cut off his astonishment and said with practiced casualness, “You certainly found an odd way to go about it.”

“Yes, well, perhaps I had a little too much of the punch also. Any other man would have kissed me in the parlor, or at the door. I would no doubt have had to fight off the advances of any man who’d imbibed as much as you did. But you wouldn’t even kiss me.”

She said the last angrily, almost convincing herself it was partially his fault for not indulging her in this one thing. But she knew better. She wasn’t really spoiled enough to believe she deserved everything she wanted.

“I don’t suppose you gave consideration to the possibility that there was a reason for that,” he said dryly, sipping at his coffee again. He held up his hand when she glared at him. Finally, he showed some curiosity as he asked, “Why me? You could have the kisses of any man. Why must you have mine?”

That question set her aback. Blinking, Blanche tried to formulate an answer. The more obvious one was that she wanted his kisses because she couldn’t have them. But that was a glib understatement. Finally, she admitted in a low voice, “Because I don’t like anyone else’s.”

The silence that followed his noncommittal “Ahhh” nearly broke her.

When she glanced back at him, he had his eyes closed and seemed asleep. Gently, she took the jug of coffee and corked it.

She didn’t know if he truly slept. He hadn’t offered for her. Sighing, Blanche picked at the remains of her breakfast. Apparently, even Michael knew the impossibility of a match between them. She didn’t suppose he’d be too willing to continue to share her bed without it, though. Why, of all the men she could have chosen, had she fallen for the one with enough honor to stay out of her bed?

Fiona sat cross-legged in front of the garret window, watching the Runner strolling along the trash-filled alley below, and wondered if she had been wrong to run away from O’Toole and Lady Blanche. Family loyalty required she protect Seamus and her uncle. They were all she had, and O’Toole had seemed intent on discovering all her secrets, drat the man. Only now, sitting here helpless, she wondered if she hadn’t been just a bit hasty.

She’d sent the Runner a message when she’d heard the plans for picking off England’s great nobles one at a time. At least Seamus and Uncle William hadn’t been part of that discussion. They had apparently returned to Ireland to gather funds. She’d learned the other conspirators by appearance well enough to follow them to their meeting places. They seldom wandered farther than these back alleys of Covent Garden, and she had Little Jack helping her. Hiding in these musty old attics, she could almost always hear their plans.

Unfortunately, she feared they knew she lurked nearby. Seamus had received word that she’d gone missing. The men who had blown up the duke’s carriage had heard the lady was looking for someone named Fiona. She should never have given O’Toole her real name. Now they had added Lady Blanche to their list of targets along with her cousin, the duke. She didn’t dare go near either of them again.

It wasn’t as if she didn’t understand the need for Irishmen to control their own destiny. She certainly recognized the frustration and anger of the overworked poor. But she could not sympathize with violence. There had to be a better way.

At the moment, though, she was more concerned with her own neck. She couldn’t continue hiding in one garret or cellar or another. She’d enlisted the aid of a homeless little boy who brought her what morsels he thieved. She shared her hiding places with him and helped him steal food from the poor larders of the houses she hid in. But ultimately, they would get caught. That was why she kept watch on the Runner.

He was searching for her, so she concluded Lady Blanche must have hired him. Seamus and O’Toole wouldn’t have the funds. Fiona didn’t want the lady harmed. She would warn her about the danger of this group of mad radicals except she couldn’t figure out how to do it without involving Seamus and William.