The Savage Miss Saxon (14 page)

“And while we were thinking,” Jeremy broke in, “we figured that having a real, honest-to-goodness Indian in the area would be a big help. They are good at things like that, aren’t they...” he trailed off, nervously avoiding Alexandra’s eyes.

“You mean ‘things’ like tracking through the woods and such, Jeremy?” Alexandra supplied, a slow smile lighting up her dark eyes. “Oh, yes, I can see how having Harold along on such a venture could be a great benefit to you. But of course you realize that you would need an
interpreter
along, right?” she added hopefully.

The trio exchanged wary glances. “That could prove a bit too dangerous, Alix,” Jeremy was forced to point out. “You see, a highwayman can’t really be charged unless he is caught in the act, so to speak. Until then he lives high. Why, Dick Turpin—one of our most famous highwaymen—lived quite openly with his father, the innkeeper of the Rose and Crown, in Hempstead. There’s a fellow who knew how to live. They all do, at least the successful ones.”

Alexandra pointed out that she had already seen the highwaymen who were working the roads around Linton and she doubted they were in Turpin’s league. “They seemed more desperate than cunning,” she told them. “Harold and I would be in no danger.”

Youthful exuberance never being known to be overburdened with prolonged bouts of common sense, the boys soon allowed Alexandra to become one of their group.

The four of them (Harold was still in the kitchens` gobbling down spiced meat) then put their heads together, formulating their first moves in the discovery and apprehension of the highwaymen. It was agreed that they must first reconnoiter the area to look for clues. This meant they would undertake to search the hills and valleys nearest the spot where Alexandra and Nicholas had been accosted earlier.

By the time the boys departed, it had been decided that they would all meet the following day at noon in the home woods just west of Linton Hall. Alix waved them on their way, still smiling at Billy’s hopeful question as to whether or not Harold would feel compelled to “lift their hair” when he caught up with the highwaymen, and she then went off to curl up with her lunch and the cant dictionary.

Alexandra was happily paging her way through the C’s when Nutter shuffled in to announce another visitor. This time her caller was Lord Linton, and he had brought no audience with him.

“Good day to you, my love,” he chirped merrily as she came into the Great Hall. “How wonderful you look. Tell me, is that color in your cheeks a lover’s blush at seeing me?”

Alexandra stopped dead in her tracks. “The subject for the day is cats,” she said, surprising him into attentiveness. “Firstly, there is the cat’s paw, as in ‘to be made a cat’s paw,’ so to speak. Someone is made a cat’s paw by being made a tool or instrument used to accomplish the purpose of another.
That
is what you are trying to make of me. But, to use the word
cat
in another way, Nicholas,
my love
, allow me to tell you this: you have about as much hope of succeeding as does a cat in hell without claws, which is the same as saying you have entered into this scheme with one who is greatly above your match.”

Nicholas’s expression of confusion was comical to behold, as was his comprehension and slowly gathering rage once she brought forth the dictionary and waved it in the air in front of his face.

“Billy Simpson! That paperskulled idiot! How could even he be stupid enough to let the likes of you get hold of that ridiculous book?” (Clearly, Lord Linton was unhappy.)

Paging quickly through her book to the P’s, Alexandra read aloud: “ ‘Paperskull; a thin-skulled foolish fellow.’ Oh, really Nicholas, and here I thought you were above using cant language. Tsk, tsk.”

“A man may use cant—it’s expected of him. But women—at least gentlewomen—refuse to allow such slang and bawdiness in their presence. They certainly don’t use it themselves!”

“Really? How strange,” Alexandra commented, still paging through the book. “It seems like a great piece of nonsense to pretend such things don’t exist when there’s even been a book published about the subject. See,” she went on, looking down at the book. “Here’s another one. ‘Bawdy;’ you said? Well, actually, it’s listed under ‘Bawdy
House
.’ It means—oh no you don’t!” Alexandra warned before expeditiously clutching the book to her bosom just before Nicholas could swoop it out of her hands.

“Give—the—book—to—me,” Nicholas gritted out from between clenched teeth as he advanced on her, his hand outstretched.

Alexandra kept backing away from him, shaking her head in the negative as she reasoned, “If I am to know what not to say, this book can tell me. What better way to learn how to go on?”

“
I’ll
teach you,” Nicholas pointed out, still advancing on her.

Alexandra raised one eyebrow, said, “No, you won’t,” and then hastily shoved the book down inside her bodice.

Nicholas smiled, rather evilly, Alexandra thought, and asked, “Was that move meant to stop me blushing in my tracks, madam?” He shook his head in denial of such an idea. “If so, I greatly fear you are to be disappointed. Now, now, love, don’t keep backing up that way—you’ll be in the fire soon. Just come to Nick, my dear, and let him fetch back Billy’s little book. Don’t be shy,” he crooned as Alexandra covered her bodice with her crossed arms, “Nick isn’t going to hurt you. Come on now, open up and let me in.”

How this little scene would have ended—with Alexandra wresting the book from her bodice and throwing it at Nicholas’s head or with Nicholas conducting his own little search for the tome—will never be known, for at that moment Sir Alexander entered the room calling out a greeting,

“You didn’t drag that totty-headed female over here with you, did you, boy?” he asked, casting his eyes about the chamber. “Good. Don’t. Nor the offspring either, for that matter. Don’t like the stable, neither sire nor dam. Stands to reason I won’t like the kiddies. Girl looked to be an insipid bud, and the boy a real clunch—and a regular Miss Molly to boot. Did you spy his high shirt points, Linton? Turn his head too fast an’ he’d lop off his bleedin’ nose?”

“And good day to you, Sir Alexander,” Nicholas returned pleasantly, ignoring the man’s character assassination of his house guests. “Do I have your permission to take Miss Saxon out riding?”

Alexandra did not protest this idea, but she surely would have if she had been paying attention. Instead, she was off in a safe corner looking up “Miss Molly,” whose definition first puzzled, then angered her. She had of course heard rumors that there were such men—if that’s what they were called—but to have her own grandfather use such a vulgar expression in her hearing was the outside of enough.

It then occurred to her that if, as the hateful Nicholas had pointed out, she had been unaware of the meaning of all but a few tame cant expressions, she would have been unaware that her grandfather had used risqué speech in her presence. One could joke about an “Abbess” but there was very little humor in “Miss Molly.” Certainly Sir Alexander did not think his granddaughter understood the meaning of “Miss Molly”—it would never occur to him. Cant was, she thought, like a code that men used in order to say anything they wanted to in front of unsuspecting females.

Hiding her chagrin at having Mannering once again proved correct, she, when at last she could be brought back to attention, was almost grateful to get away from Saxon Hall for a space to sort out her thoughts. “I’ll get changed into my habit,” she told Nicholas hurriedly. “Meet me outside after having my mount brought round.”

“Please,” said Nicholas.

“What?” asked Alexandra, still clearly distracted.

Nicholas smiled his most infuriating (at least so thought his intended bride) half-smile. “Please,” he repeated. “You forgot to say please.”

She sighed heavily and spread her palms. “Very well, Linton, if you intend to be so ridiculously disobliging—
please
wait for me outside.”

“And—?”

“And
please
have my mount brought round,” she ended in exasperation before quitting the room, muttering under her breath.

Nicholas turned to Sir Alexander. “You see, sir? All it takes is a little gentle schooling. I’ll have her eating out of my hand within a fortnight.”

Alexandra, who was not quite out of earshot, heard every word. “I wouldn’t lay odds on it, Lord high-and-mighty Linton,” she gritted under her breath. “It matters not who wins the little battles. It is who wins the war. I can afford to gift you with small victories now and then—in the end it is I who shall claim the field!” As she raced the rest of the way up the spiral staircase, she refused to examine precisely why this thought brought her such small cheer.

After enjoying a mind-clearing gallop across one of Saxon Hall’s winter-bare fields, Nicholas reined in his roan and waited for Alexandra to join him. When she drew up beside him—her cheeks flushed partly by the brisk ride, partly by excitement—he dismounted and walked around to assist her to the ground.

Alexandra’s smile faded a bit as Nicholas’s hands slipped about her waist, and her smile disappeared altogether when, in the course of helping her alight, her body was brought into close contact with his. The moment her feet could feel the ground beneath them, she pulled herself from his grasp, and wrapping her arms about her waist in a protective gesture, she turned her back and walked off toward a small stand of trees.

Nicholas watched her go, wondering if she too had felt it—that magnetic pull that seemed to draw them close and charged the very air they breathed. Her gaze, as he had momentarily held her face level with his own, had locked just as deeply with his as had his with hers, and he could have sworn her sharp intake of breath had not been a sign of revulsion. He ran his gaze up and down her slim back and concluded that she had been more than a little affected by his touch—his close proximity.

In that way at least, his plan would seem to be progressing nicely. Obviously the girl was not dead-set against him, and hopefully, he might just be able to make her believe she was falling in love with him. The only real problem, he told himself as his eyebrows lifted in self-mockery, is how
she
affects you, Nicholas, old sport! Surely, he was wielding a two-edged sword—one that could find their battle concluding with deep cuts being scored on
both
sides.

The realization that his heart just might be in danger gave him pause for a second—but not much longer than that. It was not that Mannering was not a deep thinker; he was. But in this case his thoughts and conclusions were so uniformly pleasant that he decided to stop thinking, stand back, and let the Fates take control. He had already decided to marry the girl—and for good, solid reasons at that—so where was the harm in falling in love with his chosen bride?

You could be badly hurt, you fool, he sneered inwardly. Helene’s defection didn’t make so much as a small dent in your sensibilities, but if a girl like Alexandra Saxon spurns your attentions you may well never recover from the wound! Nicholas frowned as his inner self fought to protect him. But just then Alexandra half turned toward him, the thin November sun outlining her superb figure as she lifted one hand to throw her long, silken black hair back over her shoulder.

“Oh, to hell with my sensibilities!” Nicholas said to the rustling breeze, and tying their horses’ reins to a nearby bush, he set off to follow where Alexandra (and his heart) led.

They walked quietly for a while, content to view the beauty of the woods as the afternoon sun filtered through the nearly bare trees and turned the leaves under their feet to gold.

It wasn’t until they had stopped for a rest, Alexandra sitting on an old log and lifting her face to the sun, that Nicholas decided to broach the volatile subject of their engagement.

Reaching into his vest pocket, he drew out a small, velvet-covered box and presented it to her. “Here you go, love,” he said with maddening insouciance. “Take this.”

Alexandra eyed the box much like a mongoose sizes up an angry cobra. “Why? What’s in it?”

Nicholas shrugged dismissively. “ ’Tis nothing much, just the ancient Mannering betrothal ring—worth little more than, oh, a king’s ransom, I imagine. Really, a mere bagatelle.” When Alexandra continued to hesitate, he went on, heedless of his seeming insensitivity, “Helene never wore it, if that’s what’s bothering you. I keep the thing at Linton Hall, you know, and she had broken the engagement before her visit. Go on,” he urged, “put, it on. We have to lend some credence to this pretend engagement, don’t we, if we are to be taken seriously.”