“Versailles,” he said apologetically. “One must, or be completely disregarded.”
Petra began to close the box, but he touched the spray. “Now, that might come close to doing you justice, my dark mystery.”
“My price, you mean?” She looked him in the eye.
“It doesn’t even come close.”
“Care to bargain?”
“This isn’t a game! I’m putting you in danger.”
“My dear pebble, I wanted relief from boredom on the journey. You’re fulfilling your part to perfection.”
R
obin watched this tormenting woman whirl back to the window to watch for her Varzi, who might or might not be pursuing her. He observed, too, but mostly her.
Was her story true?
It was fit for a dark and murderous play.
The Duchess of Malfi,
perhaps, with its evil brothers oppressing and in the end murdering the virtuous sister. Or the plot of an opera. Petra came from Milan, after all, famous for that art.
England, prosaic England, did not do opera. Repeated declarations of passion might sound well enough in a foreign tongue, but they sounded damn stupid in English.
Such stories occurred in England, however. His friend, the Duke of Ithorne, had stopped a similar tale. In that case the lustful man had owned a livery stable and the reluctant beauty had been the fifteen-year-old daughter of farm laborers, but the passions and pressures had been the same.
In higher circles there was Lady Annabella Rathbury, who’d been forced into marriage with mangy old Viscount Curzwell last year. No one had raised a finger over that, for after all, marriage made all right even if the bride wept at the altar. Robin had danced a time or two with Bella Rathbury, who’d been pretty, good-natured, naive and just sixteen.
There had been nothing he could have done, of course, short of offering to marry her himself. As she had no dowry to speak of, his mother would have had fits and it would have been pointless, anyway. Bella’s story wasn’t unique, and he could only donate himself in marriage once. Unless he took to murdering his wives….
His mind was spinning into fancy again, and Petra’s situation—if true—was deadly serious. He went to put his hand on her shoulder for encouragement, but felt the slight tremor. He turned her face and saw pale terror. He took her into his arms.
She clung there for a moment, but then tried to push away. “Don’t, don’t. I’m wicked to have brought this on you. It’s all my fault. I should never have been so silly over Ludovico—”
He covered her mouth with his fingers. “Hush. He’s a bully, that’s all, used to always having his own way.”
“A vicious, deadly bully.”
“Served by vicious dogs, I know. But he won’t harm you or me.”
Her lips parted to argue, so he kissed them. This time, through longing or fear, she surrendered. He was wound tight, too, keyed up for action, and was whirled into fever by the softness of her lips, the sweet heat of her mouth, and the deep, true aroma of Petra d’Averio.
He sat in the nearby chair, pulling her onto his lap, the better to hold her close, to feel again her firm, luscious body. The hat pin came free. The ribbons of her cap slid loose at a tug, allowing his fingers to shed it and plunge into thick, silky curls. She pulled her lips free, but only to stretch back, gasping for air, giving delicious access to her slender neck, her rapid pulse….
Beneath his hand, beneath thin cloth, her nipple peaked. His slightest touch there sent a shudder through her. No stays, my God, no barrier but a couple of layers of cloth. He played with her, hard and aching himself, moving beneath her, capturing her lips again, her willing, hot, and hungry lips. Her hooks were undone, his hand in her shift now, on her full breast that heaved with her breathing.
She pulled free again, but this time on the brink of protesting, her eyes huge, her lips red, her beauty stunning in daylight, perfect features haloed by dark curls….
“My God, whoever thought long hair the epitome of beauty?” he murmured, stroking to pleasure her.
“A woman, seeing yours?” she breathed, grabbing his loosened hair and pulling him to her for a kiss.
He took her nipple between finger and thumb. Her kiss faltered, she shifted, then her lids fluttered with surrender as a delicious, needful noise escaped her throat. He echoed it, but this wasn’t the place. This would be madness.
He sank deeper into the kiss, anyway, the most intoxicating kiss he’d ever known, and his hand found stocking, found hot naked thigh….
A knock.
Perhaps a repeated one, for Powick called, “Sir? Are you all right?”
Devil, a bit of me’s all right,
Robin snarled silently, warring for control, wanting to send the man away. But Petra was struggling free of him now, clasping her clothing together in front, face flaming.
“Yes,” Robin called. “Are we ready to leave?”
“
We
are,” said Powick in a disapproving tone that suggested he knew, damn his eyes.
Petra turned away, fumbling to refasten her gown. He’d offer to help, but wasn’t capable of it in his state of arousal.
“Stay there,” he said, and went into his bathroom to get rid of his clothes prop. He leant there, gasping for breath and sanity. When had he last slid into such an ill-planned disaster? How had he allowed himself to be swept beyond all sanity like that?
His mind seized up.
Not love. Oh, no, that fiery lust had nothing to do with love. Love was sweet, love was tender, love was reverent and respectful. This spicy creature had simply been too tempting, too willing at a wound-tight moment. She’d admitted to having taken a lover. No surprise if she was hot for it, especially after years in a convent.
No wonder that puerile Ludovico couldn’t bear to let her go, however. Robin could almost imagine scouring Europe for her himself.
Oh, no. Not him. He’d not scour a village for a woman who wanted free of him. Any woman.
He pulled himself together and checked his appearance in the mirror. He tied back his hair again, rearranged his neckcloth, and anchored it firmly with the pin. Then he returned to the parlor, braced for trouble, only to be annoyed by her neat composure. She was fully dressed, even to her frivolous hat.
“A good thing we were interrupted,” he said, putting one pistol in his coat pocket and picking up his scabbarded sword. “No time for that sort of thing now.”
“Definitely not,” she said coolly. Damn her.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Of course. May I carry the other pistol?”
“Better not. Demure sister, remember. Carry Coquette instead.”
Petra picked up the dog, muttering, “Much use you would be against Varzi.”
Disastrously tempted to laugh, Robin picked up the other pistol, cocked it, and opened the door. Powick was there, also armed to escort them down, and impassive in the way he always was when he disapproved.
Nothing happened,
Robin thought at him. Damn it.
But that wasn’t true. He felt shaken to his soul and wanted nothing more than to drag the woman to bed and burn through this passion and be rid of it.
Petra went downstairs, feeling hot and icy at the same time, and aching in deep, deprived places. How could she have let him do that? How could she have been so weak?
She’d never expected, never known, such passion, however. Never realized how it could roll over a person like a storm, flare like fire touching oiled cloth. Nothing with Ludovico had come close to what had just happened.
She should have known a rake would have skills, that she’d be oiled silk in his flaming hands. She must never be alone with him again. Never. She’d escaped Ludovico more fortunately than her mother had fared with her lover. She’d not quickened with a child. It would be even more disastrous to become pregnant now.
In the innyard they greeted the parties they’d travel with for safety. The two naval officers carried an air of reliable authority. They assured Robin they were armed.
“Excellent,” Robin said. “Truth is, sirs, my sister entered a French convent, but then changed her mind, but her convent doesn’t allow that. She had to sneak out, but now they’ve sent men to drag her back.”
Petra wanted to roll her eyes. Was there a scrap of truth in the man? But as usual, his story had the right effect on these Protestant gentlemen.
“Dastardly,” declared fine-boned Captain Galliard, standing even straighter.
“We’ll have none of that,” said Captain Worsley, color high despite his weather-beaten face. “You can depend on us, Miss Bonchurch.”
Robin thanked them and led Petra to their coach, putting the spare pistol and his sword on the floor by Coquette’s cushion.
Petra halted before entering. “I need some things from the boot,” she said. “My prayer book. And rosary,” she said, to lessen the significance. When he hesitated, she said, “Just because your sister’s fled a convent doesn’t mean she has to give up her faith.”
“Very well,” he said, leading the way to the boot.
“But don’t make too much of a show of it.”
More evidence of the English attitude toward Catholics.
Petra unrolled her habit and put the prayer book, rosary, and cross in her pockets, then entered the coach. He joined her a moment later, and the dog promptly leapt into his adored lap. Foolish females everywhere.
“I thought we were dedicated to truth,” Petra said as they set off.
“Are we?” He was settled in his corner again, legs stretched, watching her, damnably stroking the dog.
“As best I can remember, every word I’ve told you is true. You, however, spin a story for every occasion.”
“Only in your service, my lady.”
Service. That was how they talked of animals mating, wasn’t it? A bull serving a cow. That was how it would have been between them if they hadn’t been interrupted.
Petra looked away, abandoning conversation, as did he.
At the next stage, he switched with his valet despite his fine clothing and rode. Fontaine was no more interested in conversation, which should have suited Petra, but it left her alone with her thoughts. Even Coquette ignored her, choosing her cushion and sleep. Petra watched for Varzi, but they were passed by few vehicles, and none contained him.
Nothing interfered with their journey and they reached Boulogne as a mellow evening softened the busy town. The French couple called thanks for escort and split off to enter a grand hostelry called the Coq d’Or. The naval men came along to a much smaller inn called the Renard.
As Robin was clearly rich, Petra wondered why he’d chosen the Fox over the Golden Cock, but it couldn’t matter. The four of them alighted and gathered in the innyard, but the officers wanted to go immediately to ensure passage on the packet ship, the mail ship that provided most passenger service to Dover. Robin asked if they’d be willing to book places for his party, and they agreed. He gave them money, and they departed.
Petra almost asked about the private vessel, but stopped herself. Not here, where she could be overheard.
“Come along,” he said, and steered her into the inn with his left hand, leaving his right free to draw his sword. Powick and Fontaine stayed with them, abandoning the luggage for now. Petra was beginning to feel foolish, to be sure she’d imagined seeing Varzi, but she still stayed alert. She was the only one who’d know him on sight.
“Monsieur Bonchurch!” declared a thin but potbellied innkeeper, bowing low. “A pleasure, a pleasure.”
“A pleasure to be here, Lemans. I need an inside room until the sailing. An upper floor with limited access.”
The man’s bushy eyebrows shot high. “But it will be very small, monsieur, very dark….”
“Even so. If you please.”
With a shrug, the innkeeper led the way upstairs.
Here, as in most inns, most rooms would open onto a gallery around the innyard, so Petra understood the innkeeper’s surprise. She saw Robin’s plan, however. The narrow, dead-end corridor they entered would be easy to defend.
The room truly was small and contained only a narrow bed, a small table, and one hard chair. The window was almost too small for anyone to enter. Robin opened the casement and leaned out. “Blank wall, kitchen garden with people coming and going. This should do. Go and see to the luggage,” he told the men, “but put out some plain clothes somewhere. I’m not traveling in this.” He locked the door behind them, then put his pistols on the table, close to hand.
Oh, no. Alone again. Petra sat down, braced to resist.
He stayed standing, perhaps even stiff. “It’s rude accommodation, but you’ll be safe here.”
“It’s all that’s required. Thank you.”
“When the men come back, I’m going to have to leave you in order to find us a suitable ship. Powick will guard the corridor, and Fontaine will be in here. I won’t be gone long.”
“So berths on the packet are a diversion. Clever.”
“Let’s hope Varzi is fooled.”
Silence began to press on her, so Petra asked, “Do people often hire a ship for themselves?”
“It’s not peculiar. But I want a captain who’ll take us to Folkestone.”
“Folkestone?” she asked, wary. “Where is that?”
“A few miles west of Dover. A small fishing town without a good harbor, but smaller boats can put in. Smugglers do so all the time.”
And how would you know that?
Despite expensive jewelry, she knew in her bones that Robin Bonchurch was not what he seemed, yet she had to trust him, at least until England.
“I leave it all to you, then.”
“This nunlike docility worries me.”
“Most nuns are not at all docile.” She spread her hands. “I have nothing to offer at this point—no knowledge, no experience, and no money.”
He seemed to find that unsatisfactory, but then Powick knocked and announced himself. Robin unlocked the door, opened it, and gave the men their instructions.
“You know I’m not good in dangerous situations, sir,” Fontaine said, eyeing the pistols.
They often encounter dangerous situations?
“You need only watch the window, and not unlock the door.” Robin put one pistol back in his pocket and gave the other one to the valet. “No matter what happens, don’t unlock the door.”
He made to leave, but he’d forgotten Coquette. She’d been patient, but now she clung to his heels so tightly he nearly stepped on her. He picked her up, dumped her on Petra’s lap, and escaped, ignoring the dog’s yapping complaints.
“You never learn, do you?” Petra said to the dog.
“Do any of us?
Robin suppressed guilt over the dog and went to the room where Fontaine had put out plainer clothing. Why the devil had he dressed up in the Court of France? To impress Petra d’Averio, that was why, and only see where it had led.