A Lady’s Secret (22 page)

“The wound has to be opened,” she said, peering at it and watching the new flow of blood. She pressed the pad down again, and the bleeding slowed. “Good.” She straightened. “Now to get your breeches off so I can dress it properly.”

“Saucy wench.”

Their eyes met and a humor danced between them that was miraculous. The dark, tumultuous night seemed like a different world to this sunlit room, and they different people. Desire still wove around them, but now it was decent, civilized, and under control.

First they managed the tricky business of removing his boots. When that was done, Petra helped him to his feet, where he used the head of the bed for balance. She knelt to unfasten the buttons at the knees of his breeches while he undid the top, so she could then ease the breeches down. Thank heavens he was wearing drawers, but even so her hands tingled and felt hot. Perhaps not so perfectly under control.

She rolled down his stockings and tossed them aside, refusing to admire his legs and feet, and settled him on the bed again so she could check the wound. It oozed blood, but not too badly. He was pale, but when he looked at her from under heavy lids, heat wavered in the air.

She picked up the big pair of shears that Mistress Gainer had provided. “Your drawers are blood soaked.”

He smiled. “This could get interesting.”

“I’ll just cut them on one side.”

“I don’t mind being naked for the cause.”

“Behave yourself.”

“I never have yet.” But she saw him remember, remember disaster and the necessity of control. He turned his head to look at a wall.

P
etra blinked away tears and set to snipping up the bloody side of his underwear, trying to ignore the way his perfectly formed body was gilded by warm morning sunshine. Outside a cow lowed, crows called their harsh cries, but nearer, sweeter birds sang. Petra could easily imagine dropping the shears and lying down on the bed with him, cuddling close against that chest to simply enjoy country peace.

Coquette leapt back up onto Robin. The dog wasn’t capable of a glare, but was trying.

“The butterfly of wisdom are you?” Petra murmured.

Robin turned. “What?”

“Nothing.” She completed the destruction of his drawers and focused on the wound.

The sword had been sharp, which was good. The long cut was clean edged, but she couldn’t tell if a muscle had been badly affected. She began to clean the cut carefully. “It does need a doctor, I think.”

“Not here. We need to move on.”

Mistress Gainer returned with a tray. “We’re sitting to breakfast and I’ve brought you tea and eggs, sir.” She stopped dead. “My, you’re a fine one.”

“Thank you,” Robin said, laughing. “And you’re both pretty and kind, Mistress Gainer.”

“Go on with you,” she said, putting the tray down beside him on the bed, still enjoying the view without a trace of shame.

“Of your kindness, ma’am, can a message be sent to my friend?”

“The one at Stowting?”

“That’s right. At the Black Swan Inn there. He’ll take us off your hands.”

“You’re no trouble, I’m sure, sir, but after breakfast, Kit can ride there. As good as a holiday, this is to him.”

She left, and while Robin ate, Petra washed his leg, clinging to sanity by a thread. When she’d finished, the bowl was a dark brown.

“You lost a lot of blood.”

“Perhaps that’s why I’m lightheaded.”

She looked at him sharply, but his face went blank. She stretched the wound open a little. He inhaled and tensed, but didn’t protest.

“The blade was sharp,” she said, “so chances are good that nothing went in. Blunt weapons and pistol balls are far worse.” She decided not to use the unfamiliar salve and bound the wound up again using the cleaner parts of his shirt and Mistress Gainer’s rags.

She rose and frowned at his expression. “Are you in a lot of pain?”

“No.”

“Are you wounded anywhere else?”

He spread his hands, a teacup in one. “Do you see any other wounds?”

She made herself look. She even dug her fingers into his hair to feel his scalp.

He suddenly relaxed. “That’s very soothing.”

She knew it was, so she massaged his head, looking down at him, able to relax herself now she was out of his line of sight. She could show her love through the gentle work of her hands.

She loved him. She’d suspected it earlier, but it had become absolute during the fight, because he’d been outmatched but fought to defend her, anyway, and fought well. He was so different from the man she’d first thought him to be.

She laughed softly. His silly dog was on his lap, being lovingly caressed.

“What?” he asked, unstirring.

“I stroke you, you stroke Coquette.”

“Come lie in my lap and I’ll stroke you instead.”

She closed her eyes for a moment and then drew back. “Coquette, remind him of all the reasons that would be a very bad idea. I’m going to get rid of the dirty water and enjoy some fresh air.”

She passed through the kitchen, where the family ate, and tossed the water onto the ground, and then simply stood, firming her resolve. He was not for her.

She returned to the house to find the husband and lad had gone about their business. Mistress Gainer and her older daughter were washing dishes, and the two littler ones were playing with a cat. This was a pleasant reminder that happy homes existed. Petra could wish to live like this, but even after her years as a sister, she didn’t feel part of this simple world.

“Sit you down, ma’am,” Mistress Gainer said, drying her hands on her apron. “Take a bite of breakfast.”

Petra sat, knowing it was best to avoid Robin for a while.

“Beer, ma’am? Or there’s fresh milk.”

“Milk, please.”

“Help yourself to the rest.”

The rest was a brown country loaf, butter, and plum jam. It was delicious.

“That’s a fine, handsome man you have,” Mistress Gaines said with a grin. “No wonder you ran off with him.”

Petra could only say, “Yes,” knowing she was blushing.

“A cocky sort, though. You’ll have your hands full, that’s for sure.”

“Cocky?” Petra asked, wondering if the woman knew Robin’s name.

“Like a cock. Full of himself. Ruling the roost.” She took down a big pottery bowl and began scooping in flour from a bin.

“Yes, that is how he is,” Petra said, remembering when she had thought that about him. Now Robin Bonchurch was much more than that to her.

“And a terrible flirt, I’ll be bound.”

“He’s a very good flirt,” Petra protested, and the woman laughed.

“You’re a one.” A foaming bowl was tipped into the flour along with more water. She was making bread. “Where did you meet him, then?”

If she was going to lie, she might as well lie grandly. “At a masquerade in Venice.”

“Oooh, you mean people all in costumes, like a mummers’ play?”

Petra had no idea what a mummers’ play was, but she said, “Yes. Your closest friend could pass by and you’d not know them.”

As Mistress Gainer worked her dough, she and Petra talked about men and courtship as if they were two ordinary women. When talk turned to where she and Robin would live, however, Petra stood. If she followed this fancy too far she could tumble right into it.

“I must see how he is. And he will be wanting to send a message to his friend.”

“Oh, right. Sukey, go and find Kit.”

Her daughter ran off, and Petra hurried into the bedroom, but there she found Robin fast asleep on his bolsters. She paused to delight in his elegance, even in complete relaxation. And in his beauty, as he was almost entirely naked. His hand rested on Coquette, who lay on guard.

“Papillon couche,”
Petra said with a smile.

There was a spare quilt on a chest. She picked it up and spread it over him, leaving hand and dog uncovered, but then she touched his cheek with the back of her fingers to be sure he wasn’t fevered. He wasn’t, but he rolled his head toward her touch and murmured something. She left her hand there for another moment, then found the strength to step away.

She had the perfect opportunity to escape. She would send the note to Captain Rose and then leave. But she needed paper. Robin had a leather notebook. She found it in his left coat pocket, a pencil attached in a slender sheath. When she opened it, however, she found it wasn’t simply a journal or a source of paper for hasty letters; it was a kind of keepsake in which people had written notes to him.

On the first page she read:
To my darling Robin. Fly, my dear, but not too high. Maman.
The writing was elaborately decorative, and the page was illustrated with flying birds. Petra felt some sympathy with the worried mother of such a bird. She probably shouldn’t read more, but she couldn’t resist. Contributors had chosen whatever page they wished, so she had to go partway through the book to find the next.

My prayers go with you always. Lacy.
She wondered who’d contributed that message, decorated with ribbons and flowers. Perhaps he had a sister. It hurt that she didn’t know.

On another page someone had simply scrawled,
Magnifique! Clarisse.

That wasn’t from a family member.

You’re a monster. I hate you. Return to me soon or I will die!
That was signed only
L
.

She shot a dark look at the rake on the bed, but any glower melted into a sigh. No wonder women desired him so, and no wonder some simply cared. He was such a kind and generous man.

Too generous with his favors,
she told herself, and looked for a blank page. Any number had been cut out, so she wouldn’t feel guilty for doing the same. Then another page of writing caught her attention. No illustrations here, but a lot of words.

This was signed in three different hands: Sparrow, Rose, and Pagan. Petra recognized Robin’s neat, elegant writing in Sparrow. Cock Robin’s murderer. Why take that name?

Rose? That was the smuggler. Not surprising if he wished to conceal his real name.

Pagan? She couldn’t imagine how anyone came to be called that, even in fun.

Here, however, was proof of Robin Bonchurch’s determination not to marry. If she should turn out to be carrying his child?

Perhaps she’d never let him know. She’d have no marriage of obligation, and, heavens, she wasn’t even sure who he was or how he made his living. She did know he was an inveterate philanderer who’d make a terrible husband, especially if forced to it.

She chose a blank page and wrote to Captain Rose, emphasizing the urgent need of care. She tore out that sheet, folded it, and wrote the address Robin had mentioned—the Black Swan Inn, Stowting. She had no sealing wax, but nothing in the note was private.

She stared at the next blank page, then gave in and wrote,
Thank you, Cock Robin. May God bless you always, P.
Despairing at herself, she added,
Please listen to your mother and stay safe.

She put the book on the little table by the bed, the pencil marking that page, then picked up her cloak. She saw the cameo at the neck. She should leave it, but she needed a means to fasten the cloak. She considered the pearl-and-sapphire pin. One day soon she might need the price of it, but it was too fine a piece. It would raise suspicions.

Money. Apart from her concealed guineas, she had little. She hardened herself and went through his breeches’ pocket, remembering the last time, then pushing the memory away. She took out some coins and chose the smaller ones. A venal sin rather than a mortal?

Among the coins was that ring. She studied it again in the light. The complex letter certainly wasn’t a B. An A or an H. Just possibly an N. It was, however, the sort of signet passed down through a family of importance.

He was a man of substance and had done his best to hide it from her. That was yet more proof that for all his charms, Robin Bonchurch wasn’t a man to truly trust.

When she put the stolen coins into her right-hand pocket, she touched her cross and rosary. She took them out, considered them, and then put them in Robin’s coat pocket. A strange and probably unwanted gift, but it was all she had to give.

Coquette was still watching alertly, but made no objection to larceny. Petra would miss the pretty creature and blew a kiss to the dog. If it went just a little off target…well, what of it?

Now all she needed to do was give the note to the boy, who’d take it to Stowting, and then she would slip away and disappear.

She went to the door but halted. What if Rose wasn’t there? Or what if something went amiss with the note? She’d be abandoning Robin here, defenseless, for why should these people put themselves at risk? By tomorrow Varzi could be here, searching for his man, seeking news of stray travelers. If he found Robin here and her gone, he might kill him in vicious reparation.

Yet she
must
escape. If she stayed she was in great peril of sinning again. What was more, she couldn’t imagine her father’s reaction if she turned up at his door in the company of an out-and-out rake. No matter who Robin really was, she was sure his nature was well known. Robin, however, would never let her go alone.

She considered and came up with a plan.

She sent the note with the lad, Kit, who rode off happily on the round-barreled horse. Then she waited for the right moment and slipped out of the farmhouse. She walked to the road and looked for a hiding place. She found a stile nearby and settled on the other side of the hedge to wait, praying that Robin wouldn’t wake up before his friend arrived.

Then, with any luck, they’d assume she’d left long before, and if they searched, they’d search onward. She was going to set off along the footpath marked by the stile and hope to be well out of their way. It would break her heart, but it would be for the best.