The Short and Fascinating Tale of Angelina Whitcombe (2 page)

 

C
HAPTER
T
WO

W
hen he went out the following day to draw water from the nearby beck, the woman had returned, this time sitting on a blanket she'd spread at the base of the grassy slope, which was surely cold and damp. She was bent industriously over her sketchbook, and when she looked up again, she smiled widely and raised a hand in greeting. Jasper was already bounding over to her, curious as always.

He could ignore her. Or he could find out why she was here, where she clearly wasn't wanted.

She closed her sketchbook, suffered Jasper's attentions even as she ran her hands through his fur.

Life was much easier as a dog.

Stoically, John approached her.

“No plumbing? Or at least a well?” she asked. Her arms were full with a very happy collie, but she gestured with her chin to the two empty buckets John carried.

“The well requires considerable attention to be of any use, and the plumbing is rudimentary. Water would have been kept at a cistern on the roof of the tower and pumped down as needed. There is neither roof nor cistern at the moment.” His mouth felt as dry as the words. He hadn't been asked to give a lecture on the workings of castles and fortifications.

Yet she looked fascinated.

“You are trying to restore the castle to habitation?” she asked. Jasper broke away and took off down the hill in pursuit of a bird.

How to answer that?

“I gathered from the noise yesterday,” she continued, pushing herself up to her feet. “The great hall seemed remarkably preserved, but––” She gestured to the castle behind him, which he knew bore the mark of battle and abandonment. The curtain wall and outbuildings had already been reduced to foundations to provide stone for other works in the area, including the manor house. “Why are you doing this on your own? Surely one man alone cannot restore all of this?”

“I don't know,” he answered at last. “It could be done. I've drawn the plans.” He saw the carefully rendered designs in his mind, the survey he'd taken, possible modification. “It would take many skilled artificers, laborers. No, I could not do it alone. But I want to.”

Because he needed to be grounded by the feel of stone under his hands, of iron, wood, earth. He needed to lose himself in something that required all his thought and attention.

Because he was trying to forget.

He clenched his hands. His empty hands. At some point, without realizing, he'd placed the buckets down. A silent surrender to her presence.

To the way the wind was pushing at the brim of her bonnet, flicking about the loose tendrils of hair at her temples. She had blue eyes. Pale, clear eyes rimmed by an almost greenish ring.

He picked up the buckets and walked away. Focused on the way the earth felt beneath his boots as he strode toward the beck, flattening grass as he went.

“Did I upset you?”

She was following him, but he didn't stop. There was work to be done. He would just have to pretend she wasn't there. That he wasn't curious. That he didn't wonder why she'd returned after he'd made it quite clear she wasn't welcome.

“Captain Martin!”

He stopped and turned. She stopped abruptly too, less than an arm's length from him, and looked up, breathless. Her chest rose and fell rapidly under her voluminous winter clothes as she caught her breath.

“I gathered your identity from the villagers. You walk fast.”

“Why are you here?”

She was looking at him carefully, the intensity of her study making him tense in awareness.

He acknowledged the attraction. She was both lovely and odd. A puzzle, and he had always enjoyed puzzles.

Only now, he preferred them inanimate, uncomplicated by the uglier side of human interactions. Of the animal instinct that made men act dishonorably.

“I told you . . .” She fell quiet. It was that silence he listened to, the inner workings of her thoughts as they shifted, as she decided what she would tell him. She sighed and then offered him the barest hint of a smile. “It's rather cold out here.” She gestured to his chest, made him aware that he was covered only by the thin barrier of a shirt. “Why don't you fetch that water and I'll meet you inside? Over a cup of tea, I'll tell you the short and
fascinating
tale of Angelina Whitcombe.”

The story of why she had no reputation.

He wanted to know. But he wanted to know on a piece of paper, distanced, as if it really were some morality play.

A flicker of something dark passed across her face. All at once he felt the chill of the day. He'd been still too long.

“Miss Whitcombe.” She didn't correct his address and so he continued. “Do you do this frequently? Stalk men? Invade their homes.

“Not quite.”

He laughed, despite himself. What an answer!

“I should read the papers more regularly. I'm certain there is a warning: damnable female, invading homes and pestering them with promises of her peculiar tale.”

She smiled, but it was a thin curve of the lips. Hollow.

“I'll meet you inside, Captain.”

He watched her go without argument, watched her cross the open land back to where she'd left her blanket and book. She knelt down to fold the cloth.

She was a strange and lovely vision on an unseasonably cold spring day. Her blue coat was bright against the grass, falling in picturesque folds.

Picturesque. She'd called him that only yesterday.

Shaking his head, he turned toward the water again and whistled for Jasper.

T
he inside of the great hall looked very much the way it had the day before. The air was thick with dust that sparkled in the filtered light. One wooden bench stood by the large, cluttered table. Other than that, the only other seating was the stone window seats. Which was just as well for her purposes.

She stopped by the fire and took off her outer layers: gloves, coat, bonnet. Then she inspected his makeshift bed before settling herself down on it.

He was intrigued, his interest obvious, but he fought against the attraction. Yet events were moving fast, considering she'd only known him a matter of minutes, less than an hour really.

At this rate she could have him bedded by sundown. A few days of erotic attention and she could collect her earnings. This entire episode would be merely a small sliver in her memory, completely forgettable if not for the fact that the good Captain was enormously attractive, even with that hideous scar.

There was no point in lingering and spending more time when the fee was set. Instead, she'd move on, perhaps to York or Edinburgh, somewhere she could settle herself, find work in a theater or with a new protector. Somewhere, hopefully, gossip would not have reached.

She could change her name, too.

His footsteps sounded by the door, which he closed behind him against the wind. Jasper caught sight of her, and then bounded across the room, as if he hadn't seen her just minutes ago.

The captain came more slowly. Pushing Jasper's enthusiastic head away from her face, she watched his master walk across the room, enjoyed the sight of his long, muscled body engaged in action, arms flexed with the weight of the full buckets of water.

Servant work. Or soldier work, she supposed.

He set the buckets down, against the wall. Studied her with that eternally amused expression. She shifted her attention to his eyes, which she knew now to be brown—a very solid, warm brown—but looked darker in the shadows of the hall.

What was he thinking? Feeling?

She shifted over a bit and patted next to her on the pallet.

He snapped his fingers and Jasper scrambled from her side to lie down a few feet away, the dog's head perked up watchfully.

“The best salons in London could learn from your design choices,” she said lightly. “Surprisingly comfortable, if scratchy.”

“I've slept on worse.” His words were thick, sparse, but he came closer, sat down beside her.

A small thrill of excitement filled her as she watched him fold himself down to the floor, legs outstretched. He was so big, and so close. So raw.

“I'm certain you have, Captain,” she said. “But you've done your duty, I'm sure. Risked your life for our country.” Risked his face as well, she thought, her fingers itching to touch him, to run over that scar, but it was too soon. She needed to let the intimacy build, the tension in the narrow space between them rise. “Would it not be easier to spend your nights at the manor and come here only during the day?”

“No.”

He didn't elaborate. Instead he lay down on his side, propping his head up on his arm. With his right hand he plucked at a piece of straw that peeked out from under the blankets. He looked idle, relaxed, as if they were friends or lovers.

She relaxed a fraction more as well.

Then he focused the entirety of his attention on her. Her skin prickled with awareness. The false, forced intimacy doing its magic on her as well. Which was good. The best performances always built on a kernel of truth.

“You have a story for me, Miss Whitcombe.”

“Angelina.”

He raised an eyebrow but said nothing. She looked down and away, pressing her lips tight against an errant, embarrassed smile.

“Yes, I did promise you one, Captain.” She said the words slowly, formulating her strategy. Did she seduce him now, before admitting she was a professional at love, or did she tell him her story, set any moral reservations at rest with the knowledge?

“John,” he corrected. She met his gaze again.

“You said as much yesterday, but they called you Captain George Martin in the village.”

His lips, so twisted already, tightened. “I prefer John.”

“Well, then, John,” she said with a bright smile, “the last time I slept on a bed like this, I was seventeen and with my parents, who traveled with a theater troupe. My father is an actor, my mother made costumes. I'd been taking on bit parts, had done a turn as Helena in
A Midsummer's Night's Dream
. That was the summer I allowed myself to be seduced by a very handsome new actor. He told me I could do better than a makeshift stage at village markets. I followed him to London. And he was right.”

“So you're an actress.”

There was a note of understanding to his statement, and she smiled ruefully. Her own choices had underscored the salacious reputation actresses received.

“I was very good on the boards . . . and in the beds.”

 

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

S
he was in
his
bed, even if it was a poor excuse for one. She sat with her legs tucked under her, and the fabric of her dress accentuated the curve of her hip, the long lengths of her thighs. The swell of her breasts. If he shifted slightly, he could lay his head in her lap, rest there surrounded by her voluptuousness.

He looked back down at the much-worried length of straw in his hand.

Regardless of her profession, of the strangeness of this encounter, she didn't deserve to be molested by his thoughts.

A blur of movement alerted him the instant before her gentle fingers touched his face, the unscarred cheek, and his gaze flew back to hers. There was no mistaking the seductive invitation in her eyes, in the small smile that played at the corners of her lips. It was as if she had read his mind.

The space between them nearly crackled with energy.

He sat up quickly, pushing himself away from her so that he leaned against the stone wall.

Her hand fell back into her lap, but she still looked at him, heating him up with her eyes.

“Yesterday,” she continued softly, leaning closer. He found himself inching toward her, too, bending his head slightly to hear her words, to let his left ear, the one whose function was not as damaged by the volume of war, catch every sound. “I wanted to draw the castle, but today . . .” She paused, looking him straight in the eyes with those pale ones, and fascinated, he waited for her to finish. “ . . . Today, I just want you.”

His breath released in a stunned exhale.

Bold. Plainspoken. No wonder she had no reputation of which to speak. Or maybe she'd never had a reputation, born as she had been into a profession that leant itself to disrepute.

He was aroused, heat settling heavily in his groin. He enjoyed the sensation. It was rare these days that he thought of sexual pleasure.

Why shouldn't he accept this woman's unvarnished invitation? It had been long enough since he'd engaged in intimate relations. This would be consensual.

But that thought alone, suggesting the other, the nonconsensual, was cold water over his growing interest.

“I'm not in the market for a mistress.” He pressed against the stone as if it could ground him, could make sense of the swirling heat in his skin.

“And I'm not in the market to be your mistress,” she shot back. She looked offended and he wondered how he could have so misread everything. “You're nothing like the men I want: titled, exceedingly wealthy. You live in a crumbling castle, and sleep on a straw pallet.”

“This castle is a ruin on my estate, which includes the manor house down the road.”

“Are you trying to entice me to seduce you?”

He laughed, shocked. She laughed too. A low, husky sound, suggestive and knowing.

“I do mean what I say, John. I have no wish to be kept by you. But . . . that doesn't mean we can't enjoy ourselves during my brief sojourn in Auldale.”

He wanted to bury his face in his hands, hide from the temptation. He reached for words desperately.

“Why Auldale?”

She stared at him. Challenging him.

“John?” she pressed.

“Why?” he managed to ask. But he finished the question silently.
Why did you come here to disturb my peace? Why make me want you when I'm not ready to feel this desire again?

“I lived not so far from here, briefly, in my youth, and I was happy here.”

He relaxed fractionally, relieved she had chosen to interpret his question as a continuation of the previous.

“And what made you leave London?”

Any of the men she'd known in London would have had her skirts up to her waist by then. Mrs. Martin had sought professional help for her son, and clearly, there was a reason why. But John's impressive physique had somewhat blinded Angelina to the truth. There was something wrong with him that went deeper that the scar that twisted his mouth.

Or he simply wasn't attracted to her.

But from the way he looked at her, the way he reacted to the smallest touch, she rather thought he did want her.

So why not simply take what was offered?

Unless he knew he couldn't. She'd heard of such an ailment, particularly in syphilitic men, but she didn't think that disease was the problem here. Perhaps he had other war injuries that lay beneath his trousers. What a shame.

But how could she determine such a thing? It was one thing to proposition the man the day after first meeting him. It was another entirely to ask him about his ability to achieve an erection.

She'd simply have to . . . create the situation in which she could entice him and then feel the physical evidence of his desire. Subtlety would be necessary, which required more time.

But he was still waiting for her answer. Why had she left London?

“Because my last patron's new mistress decided London wasn't big enough for the two of us.” She ran her finger over the edge of a fold of the blanket beneath her, and then looked over her shoulder into the flames of the fire. With effort, she unclenched her jaw and relaxed her face into a more attractive profile. She might still be angry over the situation, but much of the reason she'd had to leave London was her own stupidity. She hadn't saved for the future, planned for a day she was not courted and feted or desired by wealthy men.

Not that she couldn't find another protector, but it was much easier when one was on the stage, nearly naked and posturing in front of their eyes.

“She had me dismissed from the theater where we both performed. But that wasn't enough. She ensured that
no one
in London would hire me this spring.”

“Jealousy or revenge?”

Nearly an offhand question but he had cut to the quick of it all.

“Both,” she admitted. “As I had numerous creditors and no income, I sold what I could and chose a well-timed retreat.”

She tossed her head with a sigh, willing all the troubling thoughts away. All that mattered was being here, now, in this strange castle in the middle of the wilds with a handsome, injured man who she was contracted to seduce.

He nodded.

The flames were low, and a draft sent a shiver through her. She drew her knees up, wrapped her arms around them and then rested her chin. She stared at him, waiting for him to say something.

Anything.

But he seemed far away, deep in thought.

“I . . .” he said finally, and the brief utterance sounded thick. “This castle is
my
retreat.”

He met her gaze, his brown eyes so deep, so sentient. The draft rushed over her again, raising the hair on her arms, the back of her neck.

“Would you show it to me?” she said abruptly, shifting again to tuck her legs under her. “I know you have work to do and I've taken so much of your time as it is, but I'd love to see. I'd love to know your plans for it.”

“Yes, of course,” he said, his tone light as well, as if he too wished to dispel the darkness with its deep shadows. He pushed himself away from the wall and stood, holding his hand out to help her.

Angelina rested her fingers on his palm, and this time was different from the day before: his rough, work-textured skin teased at the sensitive ends of her bare fingers. She let go of his hand as soon as she was steady on her feet. This was a truce of sorts.

He gestured to the long length of the nearly empty great hall. “This was not part of the original keep. In fact, Castle Auldale is quite unusual in its construction. It started as a simple tower: the kitchens and storage rooms were the ground floor, then above was the main hall and above that a solar. There is a narrow spiral staircase that provides access.” His voice had changed during the recitation. Whatever dark emotion had prompted him to share that brief intimacy earlier had transformed into a scientific enthusiasm. “Come.” He swiveled on his heel and strode toward the archway that had framed her first sight of him. Jasper sprung to his feet and trotted behind his master. Angelina followed too.

The space was darker, damper, instantly several degrees cooler, and the air was thick with the dust of construction. In the light that shimmered down from above, she could see planks of wood piled against the wall, waiting for whatever he intended to do.

“This was the kitchen in the original keep,” he continued. “Beyond that door is a storage room, also original.”

“That door surely isn't original,” she observed. The wood construction looked simple, new. The iron of its handle modern.

“Correct. That was one of my first improvements. Anything made of the original timber has long since rotted away. The reason the beams of the great hall still exist is that the hall is of more recent provenance. In fact, look up.”

She looked up. Glimpsed a fragment of cloudy Yorkshire sky high above.

“These stone vaults suspended the first floor. You can see that most of the remaining wood is rotted. I cut through the worst of it to allow light in. For now.

“The vaults are not original either. They were likely added nearly a century after the original keep.”

She stared at the ruins around her, at the places where stone had fallen away or wood looked charred from excessive exposure to the rain. She knew that many of the country's homes were several centuries old, had been improved upon and changed with each generation. Even the theaters had their tumultuous histories. But she'd never seen the passage of time exposed this way.

“That would have been, what, the fourteenth century?”

“Yes, approximately. My great-grandfather came into possession of the castle and lands in 1742. There are, unfortunately, very few records existent.”

He claimed ownership so casually, naturally, and yet without any of the sense of entitlement her previous, titled lovers had displayed. What made John Martin tick? Seduction aside, she wanted to peel back his layers as thoroughly as he had those of the castle. She wanted to
know
him. Naturally, it was of the utmost importance to study the habits of one's quarry.

He showed her the rest of the castle interior, stopping her from climbing the stairs, which were worn down by time, chipped by war and slickened by moss. He showed her his plans for modernization and expansion, to take something that had been left to crumble and rot, which had been destroyed to create other buildings, and turn it into an interesting and comfortable retreat. Then they walked about the exterior, and he pointed out the remnants of the curtain wall and of the outbuildings.

The afternoon sun had broken through the heavy layer of clouds and now glinted off Angelina's hair, illuminated her pale skin. He could very well imagine her on a stage, commanding the audience's attention. She was rounded and yet lithe, had a presence that made her seem tall, but she was half a head shorter than him. She possessed sophisticated London airs and yet she was following him about, asking questions as if she were absolutely fascinated by architecture and medieval fortifications.

The basest, most male part of him was responding to that attention, pleased at her interest, at the way those pale eyes looked up at him admiringly.

“I've taken up half your afternoon, Captain Martin,” she said. He looked at the slant of the shadows, which had grown longer. Barely an hour left before dark. Evening really, but she was likely still on London time, where the sunset was merely the start to the day's activities. “It's been a great pleasure and I thank you.”

Common courtesies stilled on his tongue. She had invaded his peace. Was he really to thank her for that?

He nodded finally, and stood aside, his chest tight.

“Well, then.” She seemed to realize he planned to say nothing and turned away from him, toward the main door of the keep, the very opposite direction of the village. She was certainly persistent. He rubbed at his cheek, at the still uncomfortable twinge of skin and muscle pulling against the scar.

But inside, she confounded him once again, stopping only to gather her belongings. There was no overt seduction or excuse to stay longer. He watched her take her leave with the sense that he was losing something.

Something ineffable, like camaraderie or companionship, pleasures he forwent because there were no humans on earth with whom he wished to converse beyond a scientific exchange through letters and books, or a basic and quickly passed mercantile exchange.

He preferred this world he had created, the one that encompassed only he and Jasper, who whined now by the door, which had closed behind Angelina.

E
verything was going quite well. Back at the inn, she had finally been able to slip out of her increasingly uncomfortable shoes and order a hot meal from the innkeeper. Now, as the sun was setting, she rested on the rather comfortable bed—the inn was really quite clean and neat as inns went––with her feet up and her copy of
A Midsummer Night's Dream
at her side. She may as well put these interminable evenings and nights to good use. She had not expected to have her hours so empty of activity and the previous night she had finished the one novel she had brought with her. Perhaps there was a local circulating library. Or some other traveler in the inn would take pity on her and engage in a round of chess. Not that she thought there were any other travelers at the inn. Perhaps later in the week, closer to market day, there would be increased activity.

But there were no theaters or pleasure gardens, masquerades or soirees. There was nowhere a lady of her position could go. Not that anyone but John knew she was a courtesan, but she was traveling alone, which was odd enough. She could hardly present herself at the manor house and demand Mrs. Martin provide entertainment.

In any event, she was getting older, and soon she'd not be fit for Helena or Hermia, so she intended to brush up on Titania's lines. It would be amusing to play the Queen of the Fairies.