Kate Moore (6 page)

“Meg,” he asked, “is there something you need or wish?”

“No,” she said.

“But you cannot sleep?”

“Can you?”

“Not if you cannot.”

“I have never shared a room with . . . anyone,” she confessed.

“Then you must not judge from this occasion,” he replied. “Neither a husband nor a lover commonly takes the floor.” The words spoken with just a hint of wryness made her yet more conscious of the empty expanse of the bed around her. Her thief was too near. His nearness weakened her, made it impossible to think reasonably. She must get him to move.

“You cannot be comfortable,” she said firmly.

He did not reply at once, and when he did, she detected again the wryness in his words. “My comfort must necessarily mean your discomfort.”

“Could you not have the landlady make up a second bed?” she asked, striving for a reasonable, practical tone.

“It must appear that only one bed has been slept in. Our landlady is as much in the Viper’s pay as are our friends, Shaggy and Sleek.”

“Then everyone around us is an enemy, yours as well as mine.”

“Yes.”

“So would we not be wise to flee now, this very night? Can the Viper have so much gold to offer that you will risk your life for it?”

“Yes.”

“Why are the earl’s papers so very valuable to the French?”

There was a moment of silence. “Because they will enable the French to anticipate Wellington’s movements this spring.”

“Suppose Wellington moves before the Viper can get the papers?”

“Then the papers would be worthless.”

“Then I do not need to get them from you,” she said, unable to keep a note of relief from her voice. “I need only to delay your journey.”

“Ah, Meg, you are too honest. If you mean to thwart the enemy, you must not reveal your thoughts so readily to him.”

A sudden lump in her throat made it difficult to speak. She had been telling herself he was the enemy to be condemned and reviled, but to hear him acknowledge as much was painful.

“I must lie to you, deceive you, become dishonest myself to do my duty,” she said, knowing that she could not disguise the unhappiness in her voice. He was silent for a time, and when he did answer, his voice, though careless, had the bitter edge she sometimes heard in it.

“At least then you will be ready for your next London season,” he said.

She refused to answer, but all the satisfaction she gained from her stubbornness was that she believed him still awake when at last the ache in her throat subsided and she closed her eyes.

She woke to find herself alone. There was little to do to complete her morning toilet except to arrange her hair and put on the black dress Drew had borrowed for her. There was a glass, however, and the comb and brush he had given her the night before, so she took some pains with her hair. The only sign of her companion was a faint scent of soap and spice that told her he had shaved as she slept. She picked up the stubby brush with its still-damp bristles and felt a sudden curiosity about him. What had he looked like with lather on his face? What had he looked like as he bathed the night before? It was an awkward, uncomfortable thought that made her grateful to be interrupted by a sharp rap on her door.

She opened it to the shaggy man, who indicated with gestures that she was to precede him down the stairs. They made their way to the small parlor in which she and Drew had dined the night before. There, with a map spread before them on the table, Drew and the sleek man sat talking. Drew rose at once to greet her and lead her to a chair by the fire. She saw that he was acting the dandy lord again. He commanded a small table and a plate of sweet rolls with tea be brought to her side, but he showed no inclination to include her in the discussion. For a time no one regarded her, so Margaret ate and listened, discerning some familiar words in spite of the accent. The phrase with which the sleek man addressed his shaggy partner was so common as to be unmistakable—
mon frère
, my brother. As she began to pay more attention to their talk, she thought he used it when he wished to change the other’s mind.

The shaggy man said little but ate so steadily and with such apparent indifference to what he put into his mouth that Margaret would not have been surprised had he consumed the china. The sleek man, like Drew, had pushed his plate away. His attention was all for Drew, his gaze like a cat’s on a bird, and though he often smiled, she sensed his impatience. She thought it odd that the two men should be brothers. They did not particularly look like brothers except perhaps about the eyes.

When the shaggy man picked up a bowl and began to spoon some sort of stew into his large mouth, Margaret suddenly recalled a character out of her childhood, out of her father’s reading to her. He was Esau, the man of appetite, the hairy man, the hunter; and his brother was smooth-skinned Jacob, who tricked Esau out of his birthright and their father Isaac’s blessing. She wondered then which of this pair was truly in command. They did not agree readily on any point it seemed. The three men concluded their parley and rose, the two brothers, at Drew’s word, standing aside as Drew offered Margaret his arm and led her from the parlor. He did not speak until they reached their room.

“I know your conscience is impatient and prompts you to act against me today, but I ask you to wait for my return.” Margaret attempted to look away, but he turned her face to his and held it there. “The papers you seek are not in the room, and nothing is to be gained for England or your conscience by exposing yourself to the dangers of this city or our large friend. Promise me you will remain here until I return.”

“You told me I must lie to defeat you,” she answered.

“Then lie to me when I return, Meg, but lock the door when I go. The landlady will bring you a luncheon.” She did not speak; she had been too compliant from the beginning, and she did not wish to tie her hands with a promise now.

Drew swore. He stepped forward, and always conscious of his nearness, Margaret retreated; but he caught her and took her in his arms. One hand pinned her wrists behind her waist and held her body pressed to his, the other held her head unmoving as his face descended toward hers.

“You can stop me, Meg,” he said. “A word from you stops me, but I promise you nothing will stop our hairy friend if he thinks you mean to leave my protection.” He paused, his eyes their coldest blue.

She wouldn’t give in. He doesn’t mean to do it, she thought. He means only to embarrass and confuse me as always. But he lowered his head still closer to hers. She could count his eyelashes, could smell the soap and spice of him. Still closer he bent, and she felt how odd it was to be pressed against him so that her heart beat against his ribs. When she felt his breath against her lips, she spoke.

“I swear,” she said. He drew back then, but it was a moment before he released her. When he did, he turned from her, collected his greatcoat, and departed without another word.

It was quite dark when she heard his steps on the stairs and the shrill, scolding voice of the landlady. As soon as she unlocked the door, their eyes met; it was he who looked away first. He strode past her, followed by the brothers she now thought of as Jacob and Esau, Jacob carrying a pair of valises, and Esau carrying an armload of packages. The landlady came last with a tray of meats and bread and wine and a plate of oranges, opened as before, like flowers.

When Drew had dismissed the others, he threw off his greatcoat and poured two glasses of wine. Silently, he offered her one. She shook her head, and he turned from her, his wine in hand, to look out the window.

“You kept your word, though no doubt it has troubled your conscience all day.”

“Yes,” she said, acknowledging both truths.

“What must you do to ease that troublesome conscience of yours, Meg?”

“I must stop you, and if I cannot, I must hinder you in every way, delay you.”

“You have, you know. Already we have delayed a precious day here in Oporto for supplies. Believe me, another horse was hard to come by. Your very presence will delay us further, for our party will travel more slowly on your account, and the Viper will hesitate to come out of hiding until he is quite sure of us. His hirelings are suspicious enough, I assure you.”

“But,” she said, “when the Viper does find us, you will sell the earl’s papers to him.”

He didn’t answer, only drank more of his wine. Then he said: “To satisfy your conscience you must find them?” His gaze challenged her. “Well then, search me, Meg, I offer no resistance at all.” He drained the glass of wine and turned toward her. She made no move in his direction. There was something careless and defiant in the grin he gave her that she did not trust. He shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it to her. “Search.”

“You say that either because you have hidden the papers elsewhere, or because you think I am not bold enough to . . . to touch you,” she objected, laying aside the jacket.

“Are you bold enough? After this morning you will understand if I think you reluctant at best.” She looked away. “Have you thought what you will do with the earl’s papers should you recover them?”

“No, except to put them in the hands of some . . . loyal Englishman.” It was true she had not thought ahead.

“And if the Viper were to come upon us before you succeeded in such a plan, do you know what we could expect from him?” She shuddered. “You guess, don’t you, Meg? Slow death for me, and much worse for you.”

“Still, there must be something I can do to . . . stop you.” She hardly realized she had spoken the words aloud.

“Nothing,” he said gently, “except what you are doing, delaying our journey, causing division and suspicion in our companions.”

“Then I will continue. I will do all I can to delay you,” she vowed.

“I expected nothing less,” he said. “Your wine, Meg.”

She could not be so cross as to refuse the glass he offered, and to refuse to eat would simply be foolish. It was a while, however, before she recovered something of the ease she had felt with him the night before.

Their conversation faltered when they came to the oranges, and then he said, “But Meg, you have not asked about my purchases.” She did not resist when he took her hand, so changed was his tone. At his urging she opened the parcels on the bed and was astonished at all they contained. There was a day muslin in pale blue and an evening silk in a deep wine red, the colors and daring cuts of which would have scandalized her mother, a creamy shawl of Norwich silk which she pulled about her shoulders immediately, a rather serviceable hat with a broad brim and little elegance at which she raised an eyebrow, and boots and gloves, and shifts and petticoats, and a filmy garment Drew told her she was to sleep in. As she held up the latter, she suddenly felt all the impropriety of her position.

“But I cannot wear any of these,” she protested, recalling the demure fashions her mother considered suitable for a lady.

“You must,” he insisted. “You have nothing else, and your life depends on your appearing a fashionable impure, as much as mine depends on appearing a dandy.”

“Is this the way of it, then?” She studied the fringe of the shawl. “Does a man make such purchases for his mistress?”

“Oh, yes.” He laughed. “And a house and carriage and endless strings of jewels as well.”

“You have had a mistress, then?” she asked, not looking at him, though she wished to see his face.

“Once,” he said. “A mistress is a rich man’s plaything, and I am not a rich man. Open your last package, Meg.” The last proved to be a black riding habit with maroon frogging and braid. “Try it on,” he urged.

“Oh, no, I could not,” she said, but his gaze told her he would not be denied.

“Where is your book?” he asked. She pointed to a low chest by the bed. “Tonight, I shall read.” He sat on the bed and pulled off his boots, then stretched out as she had the night before with the book propped against the pillows. She realized it had been several nights since he had slept in a bed and wondered that he so readily took the floor each night.

“Where were we?” he asked. At her reply, he said, “To the end then, Meg.” He began to read.

“‘But since, alas! frail beauty must decay, Curled or uncurled, since Locks will turn to grey; Since painted, or not painted all shall fade, And she who scorns a man, must die a maid.’” Margaret glanced at him then, sure from his tone that he was quite aware of her, but he had not turned her way. “‘What then remains but well our power to use, And keep good humour still whate’er we lose? And trust me, dear! good humour can prevail, When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail. Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll; Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.’ ”

Margaret struggled into the close-fitting habit as he read. The skirt was smooth across her stomach, and the heavy fabric seemed to mold itself over her hips. It was a new sensation to wear such a gown after her loose muslins. She had not been so conscious of her form before and wondered what he would think and how he had chosen a garment that fit her so exactly. She interrupted him shyly to say she was ready. He closed the book and rolled slowly onto his back.

“Come here,” he said. She shook her head. He swung his feet to the floor and stood, adopting a grave air and circling to inspect her, his scrutiny causing her to blush hotly. It was nothing like the times she had shown a new gown to her father.

“You make an admirable mistress, Meg,” he said at last, just when she feared he meant to embarrass her further. “Best go to bed now, we leave Oporto early tomorrow.” He took up his boots and jacket and stepped quietly from the room, leaving Meg oddly disappointed and lonely and eager to lose herself in sleep.

***

On the floor Drew stretched, then allowed his muscles to fall slack. He was weary, and he would need to be more clearheaded, more ready to act in the days to come than he had ever been in his life, but Meg’s presence in the room disturbed his sleep. He heard the covers rustle when she moved and her light breathing when she lay still. Well, it had been a long time since he had lain with a woman and two years since Lydia had made a fool of him, and of his brother, of course. At first he had taken comfort or revenge in various beds, but he was not a man who could take a woman’s love or her body and give nothing in return. When through his brother’s revenge he had been banished from the
ton
, he had turned from women. It had been easy to turn from the London beauties, who would never be so foolish as to love him for himself. It had been harder to turn from the barmaids and farmers’ daughters, who would have given themselves freely and who would have lost the most. But he had, so now, he told himself, his discomfort was only his body protesting the denial of its desires.