Susan Carroll (24 page)

Timidly, she touched the smooth bare skin of
his shoulder. Armande?"

His eyes slowly focused on her. "Phaedra."
Her name on his lips was almost a breath of relief. He smiled and
stretched out beside her, pulling her in his arms, seeking her
lips. Although not prepared for the sudden fierceness of his
embrace, she did not resist, wanting as desperately as he to
recapture the magic she had shared with him last night. How right
he had made it all seem. She had felt she belonged nowhere else but
in his arms. It would have all been perfect except for that uneasy
feeling that now crept over her, the same disturbing sensation that
had tugged at her just before she fell asleep.

What had triggered it again? Was it something
in the way he had said her name?

Phaedra strove to forget her uneasiness as
Armande kissed her. His mouth was warm and enticing, the look he
gave her so tender that it was as though the sun had risen in his
eyes. His fingers tangled in her hair as he murmured, "Good morrow,
my love."

Phaedra froze. That was it. His voice.

She thrust herself away from him, sitting
bolt upright. "What did you say?" She prayed that he would answer
her in the familiar French accent. Looking puzzled by her reaction,
he said, "I wished you a good morrow, love. It is one, is it
not?"

"I-I suppose," she stammered. What she wanted
to cry out was, no! It was far from being a good morning when she
had just realized her French lover was speaking to her in accents
that might have been bred in the hills of Staffordshire. He might
call himself Armande de LeCroix, but the man who had made love to
her last night was an Englishman.

How long she had waited for Armande to make
some mistake, to reveal his true nature. But why did it have to
happen now, after what they had shared? She crossed her arms
protectively over her breasts, feeling miserably aware of being
naked in bed with a man who was little more than a complete
stranger.

"Are you cold, sweetheart?" he asked. He
still did not realize how he betrayed himself with every word. The
intimacy between them had caused him to lower his guard. He tried
to pull her back into his arms, but she squirmed to be free of
him.

"No!" She said breathlessly. "I never
intended to wake you. I am sorry."

"Don't be. I have never been awakened so
pleasantly in my entire life."

"But I really should be-"

"Kissing me," he said, giving one of her
curls a playful tweak. She gave a hard shove, breaking his hold on
her. Scrambling to the very edge of the bed, she tugged on the
coverlet, holding it into place just above her breasts. "The
servants will be up soon. I dare not be caught in here. It would be
so difficult to explain."

She could not even explain to herself the
madness that had overtaken her, leaving her to set aside all her
doubts and mistrust of Armande, to render herself as vulnerable as
a woman could ever to be a man.

Armande raised himself to a sitting position,
the warm glow on his countenance fading. He said slowly, "Yes, I
suppose it is difficult."

Her blush deepened. "I cannot seem to find my
nightgown."

He reached over the side of the bed and
retrieved the linen garment from the floor. She all but snatched it
from him. Considering all that had passed between them, would he
laugh at her if she begged him to turn his head while she fled the
room?

The request stuck in her throat. Before she
could say anything, he rose from the bed himself. She averted her
gaze as he shrugged himself into his breeches and shirt.

He came round the bed and silently held out
to her his own dressing gown of wine-colored satin. She hesitated
for a moment before taking it, then awkwardly scrambled into the
garment. Tailored to accommodate Armande's broad shoulders, it hung
loosely upon her smaller frame. His musky male scent clung to the
garment; donning it seemed almost as intimate a gesture as having
made love to him.

"Thank you," she said.

"Not exactly the latest mode in lady's
fashions, but the effect is quite charming." He smoothed the fabric
over her shoulders, unable to refrain from making the simple
gesture a caress.

Phaedra felt a shiver of response run along
her spine, but her mind condemned her mercilessly. How can you! You
don't even know who he really is.

She shrank away from Armande, knocking a
candlestick off the night table. Nervously, she drew the ends of
the dressing gown more tightly about her.

"I suppose I must look totally absurd."

"You look like a guilty little girl who has
been caught doing something naughty."

“I have never have taken a lover before." She
heard her own words with dismay, not knowing why she said that, but
somehow finding it important that he should know. She added, laying
pointed emphasis on the foreign words, “I fear, monsieur le
marquis, that I lack your savoir faire in these matters."

The thrust found its mark. She saw Armande
flinch with realization of his mistake. But when he replied, he
coolly slipped back into his accent with what Phaedra feared was
the ease of long practice.

"I never supposed that you had, ma petite."
He approached her again, and she could see from the longing on his
face how badly he wanted to gather her into his arms. Stiffening,
she merely shook her head.

His outstretched arms dropped back to his
sides. "And so now come the regrets, despite all your vows and
protestations. I feared such would be the case. Only I never
expected it to happen quite so soon."

"Then what did you expect of me?" she cried.
"I fear I am far too unsophisticated not to feel awkward, waking up
in the bed of a man who has not even told me his true name."

"We are harking back to that again, are we?
Mon dieu, it didn't take you long." He closed the distance between
them. Forcing her head up, he traced the sensitive skin beneath her
eyes. "You look as though you have lain awake all night. Were you
hoping that I'd talk in my sleep? I've had women bed me for many
different reasons, but I must admit that this is a new-"

He got no further for her hand lashed out,
cracking across his cheek in response to his hurtful words. She
lowered her stinging palm, stunned by what she had done-but not
more stunned than Armande, who rubbed the red imprint left by her
hand.

She spun away from him, running toward the
threshold between their rooms. She felt she had crossed it a
lifetime ago. With several quick strides, he caught her, whipping
her around to face him.

"Let me go!" She struggled uselessly against
the iron strength corded in his hands.

"No, Phaedra. Please." His manner was gentle
but urgent as he sought to restrain her. "I deserved your anger.
But I cannot let you go this way. Please stay."

Tears spilled down her cheeks. Armande forced
her head against his chest. He rocked her in his arms, saying
huskily. "Hush
, ma chere
. Don't cry. I never wanted to hurt
you."

Phaedra resisted a moment longer, then sagged
against him.

"Forgive me, Phaedra." He pressed his lips
against the crown of her head. "I had no right to be resentful of
your doubts. You should have doubts about me. God knows, I have
done nothing to allay your suspicions."

"If you would just tell me who you really
are. What you want here at the Heath."

He cradled her head between his hands, using
his thumbs to wipe the tears from her cheeks. She thought she had
never seen such a depth of sadness in anyone's eyes as she saw in
Armande's. He put her from him, turning to fetch a square of white
linen from the dressing table. He handed her the handkerchief, then
almost hesitantly reached for something else.

Brushing aside the tears blurring her vision,
she watched as Armande lifted the same small chest she had once
tried, without success, to peer into. It was as though within the
confines of that box reposed all the hidden thoughts that tormented
him. Phaedra caught her breath as she sensed the struggle raging
within him, the urge to unlock those secrets, set them free.

He spoke at last, his voice taut with
anguish. "I cannot. I cannot even ask you to trust me."

She knew the struggle was lost as he
carefully returned the box to its place on the night table. He
walked over to stand by the window.

She could sense his retreat in every rigid
line of his body, the sunlight streaming through the window
merciless in its illumination of the harsh lines carved on his
face, making him look jaded with weariness.

"The wager is settled," he said. "You have
given me my night. I will leave your grandfather's house
today."

His words struck her with dismay. "You will
leave? But why? It was not you who lost the wager."

"We both lost, ma chere. Before we had even
begun."

"Are you doing this as some sort of gallant
gesture to protect me?" she asked. "I have looked out for myself
any number of years now. It is not as though I were a green
girl."

He laughed softly."You will always be a green
girl. It is one of your charms. I think you must be the most
vulnerable woman I have ever known, save one."

She started indignantly to refute his words,
then broke off, recalling that her behavior this morning was not
calculated to contradict him. She blew her nose into the
handkerchief with a defiant sniff. He had not intended to leave the
Heath upon awakening this morning. She was sure of that,
remembering the glow in his eyes as he had first reached for her,
the warmth of his kiss. This change in him was her fault. She had
overreacted, to discovering that all her worst suspicions were
true, that he was indeed an impostor. Perhaps if she had not slunk
about as though she were ashamed, frightened, blubbering all over
him, if she had behaved differently ...

But it was of no use to consider that now,
she thought, studying the immutable set of Armande's jaw. What
could she do? Fling all pride and common sense to the winds and beg
him to stay? No, Armande was right. It was far better that they not
continue to reside under the same roof. She had known that herself
from the very beginning.

She could only salvage what was left of her
pride and exit with dignity. "When will you go?" she asked.

"As soon as possible, I think. After
breakfast."

So soon! A part of her wanted to protest.
Instead, she nodded briskly, replacing his crumpled handkerchief
upon the dressing stand. He crossed the room to her side. If only
he would hold out his arms to her as he had done before.

But he did not. Instead he sketched her a
formal bow. Raising her hand, he just barely grazed it with his
lips. "Farewell, my lady."

Phaedra stifled a hysterical laugh at the
absurdity of it. He,clad only in breeches and shirt, his hair yet
tousled from their lovemaking, she with his dressing gown
half-falling off her naked shoulder-and they were behaving like
mere acquaintances, parting after tea. Yet she had no choice but to
see the farce through to its end.

"Farewell, my lord."

He didn't release her hand. His eyes traveled
over her as though he were trying to memorize every detail of
her.

"You only meant you are leaving the Heath, is
that not so?" she asked anxiously. "You are not leaving London, as
well."

A deep sigh escaped him. "No, I cannot leave
London as yet. There is something I came to do. But until that task
is accomplished, I think it best that we do not meet.”

She could make little sense of his cryptic
words, only understanding one fact. He meant this to be a final
farewell. Without realizing what she did, Phaedra's fingers
tightened over his. It was as though a huge chasm yawned between
them, but only Armande could see what lurked at the bottom. It
wasn't fair.

"And when this task of yours is done-" She
could not keep the plea from her voice. "What then?"

“When my task is done," he said with a
conviction that chilled her. “you will never want to see me
again."

Hours later, Phaedra still could not get
Armande’s words out of her mind. Shut away in her garret, she sat
at her desk, failing to notice the ink dripping from her quill pen
onto the page until it was too late. She made a halfhearted attempt
to blot the stain, Armande's grim prophecy echoing in her mind. You
won't ever want to see me again.

What could he intend to do that was so
dreadful? The man talked as though he meant to commit a monstrous
crime, as though he were thinking of murdering someone.

Despite the warmth of the late-morning sun
streaming through the garret window, Phaedra shivered. She tried to
tell herself she was being absurd. Yet although she might wish to
deny it, she feared Armande would be capable of anything. For all
his tenderness, she had seen the chilling light in his eyes too
often. When she had left him, he had already taken refuge behind
the icy facade she had learned to dread.

Phaedra's hand tightened upon the pen, nearly
snapping the delicate quill in half as she fought against the
despair and fear that beset her. Flinging the pen down upon the
desk, she tried to whip up her anger as a defense.

Blast Armande and all his cursed secrets! She
shoved back from the desk, getting to her feet. The violence of the
movement caused her chair to tip over backwards and clatter to the
floor.

She left it where it had fallen, stalking
over to the window. Both segments of glass, like two small latticed
doors, were tightly closed. No wonder it was so stuffy in here.
Phaedra struggled with the casement, trying to force one side open.
The wood resisted her efforts until her face flushed damp with
perspiration.

Swearing, she shoved with all her might,
venting her temper upon the frame. When the window finally gave,
swinging wide with a mighty slam, she lost her balance, her head
and shoulders thrusting out into nothingness.