What Wild Moonlight (6 page)

Nicholas reached for her petticoat without another word and ripped off a generous length of the rain-soaked cotton.

“Really!”

He slipped off his shirt and attempted to maneuver the bandage in place. As he did so, her startled gaze flew across his naked chest. A soft, ruby glow infused her cheeks, visible despite the layers of mud and grime that coated her skin. After a few minutes of awkward fumbling on his part, she finally intervened.

“Here, let me do that.”

He released the makeshift bandage without a word, hoping she would make a better job of it. Her touch was surprisingly soothing, light yet firm. He recollected her ministrations with the badly spooked team, and how effortlessly she had been able to bring them under control. “You have a nice touch, Miss Alexander.”

Her hands instantly stilled.

“With the horses, I meant.”

“Oh, that.” She resumed her task, her brow furrowed in concentration as she smoothed the makeshift bandage against his skin. “Yes,” she continued after a moment, “I’ve always got along well with horses, ever since I was a child.”

“It would be most convenient if I shared that talent,” he continued, more to distract himself from the feel of her hands against his skin than any genuine interest in the topic. “Unfortunately, I tend to have a rather trying record with the animals myself.”

“Oh?”

“It seems one way or another, the beasts continually manage to best me.”

“That being the case, you may not have chosen the wisest vocation.”

It took him a moment to follow her train of thought. “Ah,” he said at last. “You mean the coach.”

She cast a worried glance at the cliff, then back at him. Despite the astonishingly unattractive spectacles she wore, the sympathy in her eyes was unmistakable. “I don’t suppose your employment will remain unchallenged after this episode.”

True. His career as a coachman had undoubtedly reached an end. Nicholas let out a low laugh at the absurdity of the situation—albeit one that was cut short as, with an abrupt motion, she pulled the bandage tight and knotted the strip of cotton.

“There,” she said briskly, “that should hold. How does it feel?”

His back was stiff and bruised, the binding was uncomfortable, and the lacerations stung like hell. “Fine.”

“Good.” She rose to her feet. “Now what do we do?”

Nicholas stood as well. “Now, Miss Alexander, we walk.”

“All the way to Monaco?”

“All the way to Monaco. Unless you have a better plan.”

She thought for a moment, studying the horizon as though a solution might be offered there. “I see your point,” she conceded.

They hadn’t moved but a few steps when he reached for her carpetbag and wordlessly took it from her hand. She studied him with a surprised frown, as though the small courtesy were completely unlike him. “Thank you,” she said.

Shrugging the matter off, they strode together along the rugged path that would carry them to Monaco. “It would appear that the two of us are cursed, Miss Alexander,” he said after a moment.

“I don’t believe in curses,” she replied absently. “My mother did, naturally, but I don’t suffer from the same old-fashioned thinking.”

“Why is it natural that your mother would have believed in curses?” he asked, his curiosity aroused.

“She was a gypsy.”

“I thought you said you were as well.”

“True, but I don’t enjoy it.”

Certain she was joking, a small smile touched his lips. “You don’t?”

“It’s in the blood,” she conceded with a small sigh, “but I’m not like my mother at all. I don’t have her flair for the dramatic. My father was an Englishman, and I’ve always thought my temperament was more like his.”

“I see.” He studied her for a moment in silence, attempting and failing to reconcile the prim little chit striding beside him with the woman he’d seen help herself to the contents of Mrs. Stanton’s bag. “What brings you to Monaco?”

A look of anxious distress clouded her features. “I had an appointment with a certain gentleman at eight o’clock this evening. A rather critical appointment.” She lifted her sodden gown with one hand, then let it fall with a dejected sigh. “Now everything’s ruined. Even if we were to reach Monaco in time, I couldn’t go looking like this.”

“Surely he’ll understand.”

“Not Monsieur Remy,” she said, letting out another sigh. “He’s very particular about punctuality and appearances. Besides, everything was arranged over a month ago. Now I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“You’ll find another Monsieur Remy.”

Her brows drew together in a confused frown. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I trust the purpose of your meeting was to determine whether the two of you might be suitable for matrimony.”

She stiffened and turned slightly, allowing him the benefit of her full glare. “What an insulting assumption.”

“Young, unmarried girls rarely travel halfway across the continent without the benefit of a chaperon merely to enjoy the sights,” he stated flatly, lifting his shoulders in an indifferent shrug. As she opened her mouth to object, he continued smoothly, “There’s no shame in it, Miss Alexander. In Monaco, where the wild game consists of wealthy dukes, earls, viscounts—all blessedly free of the encumbrances of both spouses and common sense—hunting is practiced without permit and throughout the year.”

“How very reassuring,” she replied.

Her tone was as icy as the north wind, but there was no denial in her words. So his instinct had been right, Nicholas concluded silently, she had come to Monaco to find herself a rich man to marry. That and to rob as many people blind as she could. It was an uninspired plan on her part, but one which fit nicely with his own needs.

“Which do you have your sights on,” he continued blithely, “a title or money? Poor, unchaperoned women rarely command both, even those with the distinct, rather creative allure of modern-day gypsies.”

She met his gaze with a look of scorching disdain. “I’m beginning to understand why our coach wrecked. Obviously you were too busy jumping to ridiculous conclusions about me to properly focus on handling the team.”

Nicholas ignored the jab and continued walking. As they strode along the Corniche the final details of his plan took shape in his mind. The prim little Miss Alexander was a thief and a fraud—but she was good at both, and that was what mattered. When Lady Stanton discovered that her jewelry was missing, Miss Alexander would be the last person anyone would suspect.

Not only was she a good thief, he thought, but she apparently had nerves of steel. They could easily have been washed over the cliff and smashed to bits on the rocks below, yet she had risked her own life to save the horses. Then, when everything was over, she had picked herself up and started walking—carrying her own bag, no less. Remarkable, really, when compared to most of the women he knew. Anyone else would have fallen to pieces.

Miss Alexander would suit his purposes very nicely, he thought. The only question that loomed unanswered was whether she would be able to suitably mix with his peers. He sent her a sideways glance, silently assessing the woman. At the moment her drab gown was covered in mud, her hair was caked with debris, and her spectacles gave her an decidedly spinsterish quality. But she had exquisite eyes, he noted, remembering the brief glimpse he’d had earlier when she’d removed her glasses. They were an amazing lavender color, wide-set and fringed with thick, dark lashes. If she were cleaned up, dressed in an exquisite gown, and decorated with a few jewels?

Nicholas spared her a sideways glance. She would do just fine, he decided. Just fine, indeed.

They arrived in the principality of Monaco just as twilight was descending. Nicholas’s mood had sobered considerably as they’d drawn closer to the town. The daunting nature of the task awaiting him loomed too large to be ignored, and served to put the cliffside escapade with Miss Alexander into proper perspective. Nor had he anticipated that the specter of his brother would shadow him through the streets, an unshakeable presence that seemed to lurk beyond every corner. Apparently his dark mood was contagious, for even Miss Alexander seemed to have withdrawn into her own troubled thoughts.

In stark contrast to the somber pair they made, an atmosphere of indolent merriment filled the air around them. Gaslights lit the beautifully manicured parks and gardens, regal coaches rolled down the wide avenues. Richly dressed pedestrians crowded the sidewalks and the cafes bustled with activity. Although they drew several openly appalled glances, given the ragged state of their attire, Miss Alexander didn’t slow her purposeful stride or appear the least bit embarrassed. Instead, she met the rude stares of passersby with a cool, composed gaze—another point in the woman’s favor, Nicholas decided.

As they turned a corner on Rue Grimaldi, she drew to an abrupt stop. “This is where I’m staying,” she announced.

He looked at the modest structure she indicated. The villa was respectable enough, though far from first class. It consisted of three narrow floors, all freshly whitewashed. The windows were framed by intricate wrought-iron balconies, and a neat bed of shrubbery filled the garden. A
Rooms to Let
sign hung above the front door.

He shifted her carpetbag from has grasp and set it on the ground beside her. “Your bag, Miss Alexander.”

“Thank you, Mr.—” A startled expression flitted across her face. “I don’t know your name.”

“Duvall. Nicholas Duvall.”

“Mr. Duvall.” She thought for a moment, then said, “Should I write you a letter?”

He looked at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“A letter to the coach company, explaining that the loss of the conveyance truly wasn’t your fault. I’d hate to think I played a part in depriving you of your income.”

“Ah, yes. That. No. That won’t be necessary. I’ll settle the matter tomorrow.”

“If you’re certain…”

“I’m certain.”

“Very well, then.” She gave him a quizzical look, then primly offered her hand. “In that case, farewell. I trust this is the last we shall see of each other.”

A smile touched his lips at her haughty words of parting. And she claimed to lack a flair for the dramatic. From the corner of his eye, Nicholas caught sight of a young girl selling flowers. With a nod he summoned her to them. He selected a long-stemmed white rose, handed the girl a coin, and then presented the soft bud to Katya. “A small token to remember me by.”

A startled laugh escaped her lips. “After this afternoon’s events, I could hardly forget you.”

“Excellent. In that case, I hope you won’t refuse to see me when I call.”

“Call? But—”

“I’ll need a few days to put my affairs in order first. Then we’ll make the necessary arrangements.”

“Arrangements? I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr. Duvall.”

His smoky gaze locked on hers. “All in good time, Miss Alexander. All in good time.”

Katya watched as Nicholas Duvall turned and strode away. His words made no sense. Undoubtedly the strain of their journey was beginning to cloud both their thinking and their judgment. Anxious to put a little distance between them, she took another step backward, stumbling as she did so over a small potted plant.

“Yes, well… goodbye.”

With those awkward words of parting, she turned toward the villa. The landlady answered the door at the second knock. After a long and horrified appraisal of Katya’s filthy attire, the woman reluctantly accepted the fact that she was indeed the lodger who had written over a month ago to secure a room. With a beleaguered sigh, she ushered her new guest inside.

As Katya followed the landlady across the threshold and into the villa, she took one final glance over her shoulder. Nicholas Duvall had vanished completely and his disappearance caused a pang of dismay to sweep through her. Ridiculous, really, when she wasn’t even certain she even liked the man. Resolving to push all thoughts of the enigmatic Englishman aside, she followed the landlady through the modest house and to her room.

She set down her carpetbag and glanced around the small chamber. Although distinctly unglamorous, it was entirely adequate. It contained a narrow bed, a chest of drawers, and a table with two chairs. She also noted a privacy screen, behind which rested a small tub for bathing, a stand with a pitcher and water basin and—an unexpectedly gracious touch—a stack of jasmine-scented soaps.

As she crossed the room, Katya caught a glimpse of herself in an oval looking glass and gave a gasp of horror. Her hair was completely undone and thoroughly matted with mud and leaves. Her face and hands were coated with a thin film of grime, as were her spectacles, and her gown was caked with mud and various bits of debris. No wonder her landlady had looked so horrified.

A wry, self-deprecating grin touched her lips. No wonder the Englishman had vanished so quickly. Deciding to immediately avail herself of every bucket and pail of hot water she could carry from the kitchen to her room, she set about the task of bathing. By the time she had finished and changed into the crisp white linen nightshirt she carried in her carpetbag, her bathwater ran black.

She dumped the stale water in the vegetable garden outside her window and quietly padded back for more hot water for her clothing. That accomplished, she knelt down in front of the tub and placed her garments inside. As she rinsed out the clothing she felt a thick lump in the pocket of her skirt. She reached inside, expecting to find a fistful of rocks or perhaps an undissolved clump of mud.

Instead she discovered a man’s leather riding glove. Katya stared at it in perplexed silence. Then with a sudden rush of understanding she realized how it had come to be in her possession. The Englishman’s glove had slipped off in her hand as he had tried to pull her up the cliff. Although she didn’t recall doing so, in her panicked state she must have tucked it into her pocket.

Abandoning her wash for the moment, she squeezed the glove free of excess moisture and brought it with her to the table. She sat down and turned the glove this way and that, unaccountably fascinated by the item and—though she was loathe to admit it—the man to whom it belonged. Without stopping to examine her motives she lifted the glove close to her face. It carried a compelling mixture of aromas: leather, horses, the sweet jasmine of the soap, and the heady, unmistakably masculine scent of the Englishman’s skin.