Royal Renegade (19 page)

"Jerseys," Devlyn murmured of his dairy cows, who were watching them placidly, not jeering at all.

After the wagon started off with a lurch and bounced along the cow path, she added, "I did prefer the balloon as a vehicle, I think. You really ought to do something about your road here, Michael. It's in lamentable condition."

"The cows have never minded," Devlyn returned shortly, looking ahead toward his home. But his hand sought hers under the straw, and she let out her breath in a slow sigh. He wasn't angry anymore, if anger had been his emotion after those last kisses. He certainly did not respond to kissing as she had always supposed a man would do, but then, he was ever a puzzle to her. Now, as she let her head rest against his shoulder, he made no protest, at least. But he groaned when she sat up suddenly and her elbow made contact with his ribs.

"Michael, we can't just leave our beautiful balloon there in that field with those cows, who might trample it under their sharp claws."

"Cows have hooves, not claws." Devlyn looked back at their formerly majestic conveyance, now lying sadly deflated and flaccid in the hay field, though the bold blue bag still captured the imagination. "I'll have a couple of the farmhands bring it into the barn. It would be a shame to let it get torn up, when it has been our vehicle to freedom."

Pleased that he was finally taking a properly romantic view, she said optimistically, "Perhaps we can fly it again sometime."

Then his eyes shuttered over, becoming an opaque gray, and she realized she had once again made a misstep, supposing that someday they would be together again. But the ache hardly had time to reach her throat when he squeezed her hand and his mouth curved in that reluctant smile she had come to love. "And how will we get it off the ground without the help of our good friend Jacques? We'll have to ask the captain to smuggle him over here to give us ballooning lessons."

Delighted by his gentle words, she tossed her head and said, "I think we know far more than Jacques about flight, at least since our flying voyage. I have always seen him as more of a hindrance than a help." Then, as they passed a copse of trees and got a glimpse of the sea, she said, "Oh, I'd forgotten about Captain Dryden."

"Hush," he said, nodding toward the squire.

She could hear the mutterings of that worthy man hunched over the reins, trying not to listen to their conversation. Fortunately for the squire's resistance to temptation, which was remarkably weak, they were soon clattering through a well-kept park to the side of a great red-brick house. "Almost home, Devlyn," the squire said. "How long has it been since you've been here?"

"A year. There was some damage from a storm, I understand."

"Some windows broken, and the roof came off a barn. You got off lightly. Two houses were flattened in the village. But you know that, of course. Kind of you to have them rebuilt."

"Think nothing of it. We landowners must keep the village prosperous," Devlyn said pompously, but his grin told Tatiana that he knew nothing whatever about the two houses or his own contribution to their rebuilding. "I have," he whispered to her, "a very officious bailiff. Very generous, too, I gather."

Tatiana loved that, his gathering her into his confidence, as if the two of them had some sort of exclusive connection. They did, of course, she knew that now. But even the happiness came tempered, for she could not bear to think what awaited them on the morrow.

Then the house they halted in front of drove all the sadness from her mind. "Oh, what a lovely place!" A wide, white-columned portico fronted a domed central hall with two wings extending back toward the cliffs. "Such rosy bricks—I thought you said it was a keep. I imagined some sort of great gray fortress, instead of a house with a dome and columns—oh, I love domes! So Italian!"

The squire decided he could have legitimately heard this, as he was helping her out of the wagon, and answered, "The old keep was a gray fortress, matter of fact. But the viscount's ancestor tore it down, what, a century ago? His wife didn't like it. Said it was drafty and old-fashioned." He ruminated for a moment, his hand still on her elbow. "My wife says the same thing about the Grange. But I'm not so bewitched as to give into her whim. Of course, my wife's hardly as bewitching as the late viscountess, either. She had red hair, miss, like you. Ain't that right, Devlyn? Her portrait hangs there right in the front hall. Red hair and—"

"The viscountess—my great-grandmother—" Devlyn interposed, "had visited Italy and stayed at the Villa Capra, designed by Palladio. I take it she spent the next few years cozening her husband into demolishing the fifteenth century keep. And that is how I ended up with a Palladian villa instead, absurd as it looks here on the Dorset coast."

"Well, I think it is beautiful," Tatiana said loyally. She ran up the wide marble stairs as Devlyn hung back to give the squire his instructions. This is Michael's home, she thought, flinging open the great oak door.

The great hall was flooded with late afternoon light from the towering Palladian windows at each end. It was fortunate, Tatiana mused, that the light was so golden and welcoming for the hall, for all its rosewood wainscoting and blue silk French wallpaper and lofty balcony, was quite bare. Not even a chair marred the emptiness of the chamber, made even more echoing by the vaulted dome above. It was all so lovely, but so lonely, as if the house was waiting for someone to come and fill it with love.

Her neck strained from trying to decipher the silver and gold fresco on the dome, Tatiana was drawn to the portraits that hung on one wall under the magnificent curve of the mahogany staircase. The Danes were a handsome family, she concluded, though none of the viscounts dressed in the ornate styles of the previous centuries had Michael's quiet elan. In fact, several of the men had lines of dissipation around their eyes and mouths—too much a part of their natures, apparently, for even sycophantic artists to conceal. Selfishness was painted into their uncaring postures and the cynical twist of their mouths. Michael's countenance, in contrast, was unmarked with those telltale signs of dissolution, something Tatiana found oddly comforting.

As she waited for Michael to join her, she moved along the wall, looking for a picture of him. Finally, at the end, she found a family portrait in a modern brass frame—a dark-haired woman sitting in a sunlit garden with her two children. Where was the father, Tatiana wondered, even as she focused on the small boy standing at his mother's side. Something in that straight posture, in the proud way he held his shoulders, defined that little boy as her Michael. And his smile—the boy was smiling just as Michael always smiled at her when she finally teased him beyond the limits of his control—a sweet smile, generous and exasperated, his eyes lit with silver and laughter.

The boy rested his hand on the shoulder of his little sister, a pinafored little beauty of two or so, with dark ringlets and a sunny grin. Merry was her name, and merry she was, and Tatiana thought sadly of a happy life cut short by tragic chance. Little Merry, safe on her mother's lap, could not have known that she would not live to fulfill the promise of her name.

In the image of his mother, Tatiana thought she saw the genesis of Michael's wary composure. For the lady was quietly beautiful, her blue eyes serene and soft, her dark head tilted in a way that was both poised and watchful. She had none of the careless confidence of the men whose portraits had so intrigued Tatiana. No, Michael's mother had shared his sense of restraint, of watching and waiting and never trusting entirely to fate, as if she knew somehow how cruel it might be.

The door creaked open, and Tatiana hastened back to the portrait of a lady with an ornate powdered hairstyle topped with a feathered headdress. Michael wouldn't want to find her studying that picture that symbolized his great tragedy. So when he entered the hall, she was able to look up and declare gaily, "I've found your great-grandmother, I think, the bewitching one who tore down the old keep. See, her hair is powdered, but you can see just a glint of red underneath. What was her name?"

Michael came to stand beside her, so near that she could hear the rough linen of his sleeve brush against her wool dress. "Don't laugh now. It was Desiree."

"Why would I laugh? I think it's a lovely name. So romantic—no wonder your great-grandfather demolished his ancestral home for her. She is lovely, isn't she? Desiree—oh, I do admire her."

"John and I used to admire her decolletage." Michael absently ran a finger along the expanse of creamy bosom rising like snowy hills over the gold satin bodice. When he realized what he was doing, he turned abruptly away from the portrait. "I don't know where the servants have all got to. They become too accustomed to an absentee employer, I suppose."

As if on cue, a cadaverously thin man of some fifty years appeared in the doorway under the staircase. He waited silently for his master to notice him, and remained silent even then, his hands clasped behind his back in a gesture both servile and dignified. He evinced not the slightest surprise to see his employer appear suddenly with a ragged girl in tow. "Ah, Travers, I was wondering if you'd absconded with the silver. I'll just be staying for the night. The lady here will need to freshen up for her journey to Weymouth. Send one of the maids here to help her."

Travers bowed out, still eerily quiet, and Tatiana watched him go, biting her full lower lip. Devlyn noticed her expression and said gently, "You needn't worry that he will bruit this about. As you can see, he doesn't even speak to me. Efficient, but silent as the tomb."

"It's not that—" The arrival of the young chambermaid cut off her demurral, but as she climbed the great staircase Tatiana completed the thought. It's just that you keep speaking of sending me away, turning me over to someone else. Package delivered. Mission completed.

As she opened the door to a pleasant yellow bedroom, the dark-eyed maid eyed Tatiana with some curiosity. Since Tatiana was ordinarily inquisitive herself, she satisfied the girl with a story that had the added benefit of diverting her thoughts from Michael's dismissal. With her best languid French accent, she observed, "Such an exciting escape we had! Your master swooped out of the sky in his balloon and plucked me right out of the garden at Versailles! My father le duc will be so pleased to see me safe and sound and away from Bonaparte."

Her loquacity, as usual, had the effect of bridging the gap between lady and servant. And while Louise, as she was named, helped Tatiana comb out her tangled red hair, they found that they had a favorite topic in common. The maid, as it turned out, was a great fan of Lord Devlyn, although today was only the third time she had ever set eyes on him. But she confessed that she had learned to read just to keep herself informed about her employer's exploits on the Peninsula. As she brushed out Tatiana's dusty frock, she recited full paragraphs of praise about Devlyn from Wellington's dispatches. "We are all so proud of him, a real Dorset hero, he is. And such a fine master, too, paying us so well, and it's not as if there's much to clean around here. Why, there are only four bedrooms in this wing furnished, and you saw the great hall, bare as can be. His lordship has been too busy destroying the enemies of the king to visit here often, but someday he will vanquish Napoleon and return to us."

Tatiana listened with some fascination, for she seldom met anyone as voluble as herself, and Louise was remarkably well-informed about Lord Devlyn. In a few moments with Louise, the princess learned more about Michael's exploits on the Peninsula than he had told her in six weeks. And like the little maid, she felt her heart stir with pride.

"Well, I don't know, miss. It don't look like it'll survive a washing." They both looked dubiously at the blue wool gown. It had never been anything more than serviceable, and now, after hours on horseback, a balloon ride, and a fall into a hayfield, it was plain lamentable.

"Oh, I don't mean to put on that rag, Louise. And all my other dresses are back on—in Versailles. Is there anything here I could change into? Anything of yours I could borrow? We are near the same size."

"I have only my spare uniform, ma'am, and it's hardly fitting—"

"Neither is this. Run and get it, won't you? And I'll send it back when I get my baggage. With a velvet cloak for your trouble. Do you like velvet? Blue, perhaps? I have several of them, so you needn't worry that I'll go cold."

That promise had Louise speeding off to the servants' quarters and returning in moments with her spare uniform, a simple gray frock with a crisp white collar and a stiff starched apron.

"It fits just fine," Louise said proudly, doing up the buttons.

"And I look very prim, don't I? No one will recognize me at all." Tatiana had a wild thought of keeping this disguise, of taking a position as a housemaid somewhere—here at Devlyn, perhaps, with its heroic and generous master. But before she could ask Louise whether there were any maid positions open, a knock at the door made them both fall silent.

Michael had changed into a fashionable blue coat and buff pantaloons, his Hessians gleaming impressively. Tatiana knew a moment of sadness. Gone was the handsome peasant who had teased her and kissed her as they floated across the channel. Once again the elegant, unreachable lord, Devlyn halted in the doorway, looking from one girl to the other, at their identical uniforms, and, Tatiana realized ruefully, their identical expressions of anxious adoration. Finally he nodded at Louise and thanked her, and with one last worshipful glance the maid left them alone.

Tataina ducked her head a little shyly under his suddenly warm gaze. As if putting on this prim little outfit had stripped away all her princessly privilege, she found herself intimidated by his power. Of course, she told herself as he moved closer to her, now that he had put back on his lordly manner with his lordly clothes, Michael would never take advantage of his position—no matter how much she wanted him to. But then he smiled at her, wryly, resignedly, and took her hand in his.

"You know, I've never been one to dally with housemaids—"