To Taste Temptation (8 page)

And he walked away into the darkness.

The wizard winked once, and Iron Heart found himself within the castle’s walls. He was dressed as the king’s own guard, and there, not two paces away, sat the king himself on his golden throne! Well, you can imagine how surprised he was. He opened his mouth to exclaim when he remembered the wizard’s words. He must not speak, else he would return to rags and the princess would die. So Iron Heart shut his mouth and vowed not to let a sound pass his lips. His vow was soon tested, for what should happen next but seven burly knaves rushed into the throne room, bent on killing the king. Iron Heart leapt forward into battle, swinging his sword left and right. The other guards shouted, but by the time they drew their swords, all seven assassins lay dead on the floor....

—from
Iron Heart

“Samuel Hartley is the most irritating man,” Emeline said late the next morning.

She was in the little sitting room with Melisande Fleming. This room was one of her favorites; the walls were papered in yellow and white stripes with a thin scarlet line that occasionally repeated. The furnishings were not as new as the ones in her formal sitting room, but they were done in lush reds and oranges in lovely damasks and velvets. One felt just like a cat in the room, as if it would be easy to stretch out on the rich fabrics and purr. Not, of course, that she would do anything so uninhibited, but still, the feeling was there. In actual fact, she and Melisande sat quite properly by the windows. Or rather, Melisande sat and Emeline paced as her friend calmly drank tea.

“Irritating,” Emeline muttered, and straightened a tasseled pillow on the settee.

“So you’ve said before,” Melisande replied. “Four times since I arrived.”

“Have I?” Emeline asked vaguely. “Well, but it’s true. He doesn’t seem to have the first idea of social manners—he danced a
jig
in this very house just the other day—he always has a bit of a smile on his face, and his boots have no heels.”

“Horrors,” Melisande murmured.

Emeline shot Melisande, who had been her very good friend since nearly the beginning of time, an exasperated look. She sat as she always did, as if she strove to occupy as little space as humanly possible. Her back was straight and prim, her arms almost clapped to her sides, her hands folded in her lap—when she wasn’t drinking tea—and her feet placed neatly side by side on the carpet. She probably never felt an urge to lounge in the pillows piled up on the flame settee. Also—and this was something of a point of contention between the friends—Melisande always wore brown. Sometimes, it was true, she strayed from brown and was seen in gray, but that could hardly be called an improvement, could it? Today, for instance, she was in an impeccably cut sack dress that was an awful shade of dirt brown.

“Why ever did you have that gown made in that fabric?” Emeline asked.

Another lady might look down at herself. Melisande picked up the teapot and calmly poured herself more tea. “It doesn’t show dust.”

“That’s because it’s the same color as dust.”

“There you are.”

Emeline stared at her friend critically. “With your fine, blond hair—”

“It’s dust-colored, too,” Melisande murmured wryly.

“No, it’s not. It’s just that you have very subtle coloring.”

“Dust-colored hair, dust-colored eyes, dust-colored complexion—”

“Your complexion is not dust-colored,” Emeline said sternly, then winced when she realized her gaffe. She hadn’t meant to imply that the rest of her friend was dust-colored.

Melisande shot her an ironic look.

“If you would just wear more vibrant colors,” Emeline said hastily. “A lovely dark plum, for instance. Or crimson. I long to see you in crimson.”

“Then you shall have to pine away,” her friend said. “You were telling me about your new neighbor.”

“He’s quite irritating.”

“You may have mentioned that before.”

Emeline ignored that. “And I don’t know what he does at night.”

Melisande looked at her. One eyebrow rose almost imperceptibly.

“That’s not what I meant!” Emeline fluffed a pillow rather overhard.

“I am relieved,” Melisande replied. “But I’m wondering what Lord Vale thinks of this colonial.”

Emeline stared. “Jasper has nothing whatsoever to do with Mr. Hartley.”

“Are you sure? Would he approve of your association with the man?”

Emeline wrinkled her nose. “I don’t want to discuss Jasper.”

“I must say, I’m outraged on Lord Vale’s behalf,” Melisande said without heat as she plunked a spoonful of sugar into her tea.

“I’m sure Jasper would be flattered if he only knew.” Emeline sat on the edge of a beautiful gold velvet chair. Her mind immediately reverted to her original theme. “It’s just that I ran across Mr. Hartley last night quite late. I was coming home from Emily Turner’s soiree—you were right; I never should have gone—”

“Told you.”

“Yes, and I’ve just
said
so.” Emeline bounced a little in her chair. Melisande could be so didactic sometimes. “Anyway, there he was, skulking in a quite suspicious manner in a dark alley.”

“Perhaps he makes his living as a footpad,” Melisande said. She was examining the tray of sweets that the maid had left them.

Emeline frowned. It was very hard sometimes to tell when her friend was jesting and when she was not. “I don’t
think
so.”

“How reassuring,” Melisande said, and chose a tiny pale yellow cake.

“Although he does seem to move very quietly,” Emeline mused, “which I would think would be most helpful if one was a footpad.”

Melisande had popped the cake into her mouth, and she merely raised her eyebrows now.

“But no. No.” Emeline shook her head decisively. “Mr. Hartley isn’t a footpad. So that leaves the question, What was he doing walking about so late?”

Melisande swallowed. “The most obvious answer is an assignation.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.” Emeline didn’t know why her friend’s suggestion so nettled her. It was, as she said, obvious. Emeline took a steadying breath. “I asked and he said most explicitly that he had not been to see a lady.”

Melisande coughed dryly. “You asked a gentleman if he was returning from a tryst with a female.”

Emeline blushed. “You always make things sound so awful.”

“I merely repeated your words.”

“It wasn’t like that at all. I made an inquiry; he replied most properly.”

“But, dearest, don’t you see that he would deny an assignation to you in any case?”

“He didn’t lie to me.” Emeline knew she spoke too vehemently. Her face and neck were hot. “He didn’t.”

Melisande looked at her with eyes that were suddenly weary. This was a sore point for her friend. Melisande was nearly eight and twenty and had never married, despite having a very respectable dowry. She’d been engaged once, nearly ten years ago, to a young aristocrat whom Emeline had never really liked. And her dislike had proven well founded. The cad had thrown Melisande over for a dashing titled widow, leaving Melisande with an unnaturally cynical view of gentlemen in general.

Yet, despite her own views, Melisande merely nodded now at Emeline’s rather silly assertion that a gentleman she hardly knew would tell her the truth about so private a matter.

Emeline smiled in gratitude. Brown or not, Melisande was the dearest friend imaginable.

“If he wasn’t returning from an assignation,” Melisande said thoughtfully, “then perhaps he’d been to a gaming hell. Did you ask him where he’d been?”

“He wouldn’t tell me, but I really don’t think it was anything as prosaic as a gaming hell.”

“Interesting.” Melisande stared out the window. The little sitting room was at the back of Emeline’s town house and overlooked the garden. “What does your aunt think of him?”

“You know Tante.” Emeline wrinkled her nose. “She is worried that his sister might not wear shoes.”

“
Does
she wear shoes?”

“Of course.”

“What a relief,” Melisande murmured. “Tell me, is your Mr. Hartley a tall gentleman with lovely brown hair, unpowdered and clubbed back?”

“Yes.” Emeline stood and moved to the window. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I believe he is doing something gentlemanly in his back garden.” Melisande nodded out the window.

Emeline looked and felt an odd little nervous jolt when she saw Mr. Hartley’s form just over the wall that divided the gardens. He was handling a very long gun.

At that moment, a small form catapulted down her own garden path, followed more slowly by a thin little man. Daniel had come out for his morning walk.

“What do you think he is about with that great gun?” Melisande asked idly.

Mr. Hartley had put down his gun again and now seemed to be peering into the barrel—a position that appeared inherently dangerous.

“Lord knows,” Emeline muttered. She had a great desire to abandon her very good friend and find some pretext to go into her garden. Wigeon! “Something masculine, no doubt.”

“Mmm. And Daniel out there so near to him.” Melisande looked at her over a cup of tea, her eyes amused. “A concerned mama might very well go out to see what her neighbor was doing.”

S
AM WAS AWARE
of the boy well before he actually saw him. The brick wall between the gardens was six feet tall, but the sounds of a boy could easily be heard—a skipping run in dry leaves, a panting cry to “come see!” and finally the scrabbling of boots on tree bark as the lad scrambled up a tree. There was a relative silence then, broken only by the sound of heavy breathing as the boy watched him.

Sam sat on a marble bench beneath the wall, his Kentucky rifle laid across his knees. He took a long piece of wire from his pocket and threaded it through the touchhole, working it back and forth to scrape out any corrosion. Then he blew into the tiny hole and sighted down the barrel.

The boy broke. “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning my gun.” Sam didn’t look up. Sometimes an animal was braver when it didn’t think the tracker was interested.

“I have a gun.” There was the sound of rustling leaves as the boy shifted.

“Oh?”

“Belonged to my uncle Reynaud.”

“Mmm.” Sam got up and stood the gun on its butt. He slid the ramrod out from under the barrel.

“M’man says I can’t touch it.”

“Ah.”

“Can I help you clean your gun?”

Sam paused at that and squinted up at the boy. Daniel lay on a branch two feet over his head, arms and legs dangling. He had a scratch on one cheek and a streak of dirt on his white shirt. His blond hair hung over his forehead, his blue eyes sparkling with excitement.

Sam sighed. “Would your mother mind if I let you help me?”

“Oh, no,” the boy said instantly. He began inching out on the limb, closer into Sam’s yard.

“Whoa, there.” Sam set aside his rifle and went to stand underneath the boy in case he fell. “What about your tutor?”

Daniel craned his neck, looking back into his own garden. “He’s sitting on the bench under the rose arbor. He always falls asleep there when we take our walk.” He inched forward again.

“Hold it there,” Sam said.

The boy froze, his eyes wide.

“The branch won’t bear your weight if you go much farther out. Swing your legs down and I’ll help you.”

Daniel grinned in relief and let both legs dangle off one side of the branch, holding on by his arms. Sam caught the boy by the waist and lowered him to the ground.

Immediately, Daniel ran to the gun. Sam watched carefully, but the boy didn’t touch the weapon; he merely examined it.

Daniel whistled through his teeth. “’Pon my word, that’s the longest gun I ever did see.”

Sam smiled and hunkered down next to the boy. “It’s a Kentucky rifle. Settlers use it on the frontiers of Pennsylvania in the Colonies.”

Daniel glanced sideways at Sam. “Why’s it so long? Don’t that make it hard to carry?”

“Not much. It’s not that heavy.” Sam picked up the gun and sighted down the barrel again. “Aim’s better. Shot’s better. Here, take a look.”

Daniel eagerly stood beside him as Sam held the gun. “Zounds!” the boy whispered. He squinted down the barrel, one eye shut, breathing through his mouth. “Can I shoot it?”

“Not here,” Sam replied. He lowered the gun. “Hop on the bench and you can help me.”

The boy scrambled to stand on the bench.

“Take this.” Sam handed him a thick rag. “Now hold the gun steady and don’t drop it. The water’s hot. Ready?”

The boy grasped the barrel of the rifle in both hands, the rag underneath to keep his hands from burning. His brow creased with concentration. “Ready.”

Sam picked up a steaming kettle of water from the ground and carefully poured a thin stream of boiling water down the barrel. Dirty black water bubbled out of the touchhole.

“Zounds,” Daniel breathed.

Sam glanced at him and smiled. “Hold it there a minute.” He set down the kettle and picked up the ramrod, wrapping a bit of rag around the end. He inserted the ramrod into the barrel and shoved it halfway down. “Want to do it?”