Slightly Wicked (6 page)

“No,” she said. “That would not be fair either. It would lower the tone of their house.”

He raised his eyebrows but made no comment.

“What is your horse’s name?” she asked.

“Bucephalus,” he said.

“He is a beauty.”

“Yes.”

They were quiet then until he had finished brushing the horse down, forking the old hay out of the stall and spreading fresh, feeding and watering the animal. It was surprising really. Most women of his acquaintance liked to chatter, with the notable exception of his sister Freyja. But then Freyja was an exception to almost all rules. The silence was a comfortable one. He did not feel at all self-conscious at her quiet scrutiny.

“You love horses,” she said when he was finished and leaned back against a wooden beam and crossed his arms. “You have gentle hands.”

“Do I?” He half smiled at her. “You do not love horses?”

“I have not had much to do with them,” she admitted. “I believe I am a little afraid of them.”

But before they could become more deeply involved in conversation, a stable lad appeared to inform them that the innkeeper’s wife had a pot of chocolate awaiting them in the dining room, and they made their way back across the yard, running and dodging puddles again. The rain seemed to be easing somewhat.

They sat and talked for two hours until their midday meal was ready. They talked about books they had both read and about the wars, newly over now that Napoléon Bonaparte had been defeated and captured. He told her about his brothers and sisters without telling her exactly who they were. He told her about Wulfric, the eldest; about Aidan, the cavalry officer who had recently come home on leave, married, and decided to sell out; about Freyja, who had twice been almost betrothed to the same man but who had lost him to another woman last year and had been spitting mad ever since; about Alleyne, his handsome younger brother; and about Morgan, the youngest, the sister who bade fair to being lovelier than anyone had any right to be.

“Unless,” he added, “she were to have fire-gold red hair and green eyes and porcelain skin.” And the body of a goddess, he added silently. “Tell me about your family.”

She told him about her three sisters, Cassandra, older than herself, Pamela and Hilary younger, and about her younger brother, Branwell. Her parents were both still alive. Her father was a clergyman, a fact that explained why she was estranged from her family. What had impelled the daughter of a clergyman into a life of acting? He did not ask the question and she did not volunteer the information.

By the time they had finished the midday meal, the rain had eased to a light drizzle. If it were to stop within the next hour or so, the roads should be passable by tomorrow. The thought was somewhat depressing. The day seemed to be going far too fast.

“What is there to do for amusement in this town?” he asked the landlady when she came to remove their dishes—they had been deemed far too important for the services of the maid, it seemed. That wench was busy serving a few townsmen their ale in the adjoining taproom.

“There isn’t nothing much on a day like this,” she said, straightening up, setting her hands on her hips, and squinting in concentration. “It’s not market day. There is just the church, which isn’t nothing much as churches go.”

“Any shops?” he asked.

“Well, there is the general shop across the green,” she said, brightening, “and the milliner’s next to it and the blacksmith’s next to that. Not that you would have any need of
his
services.”

“We will try the general shop and the milliner’s,” he said. “I have a mind to buy my wife a new bonnet since she ran away without one.”

Claire’s—the only one she had brought with her—had been lost inside the stagecoach, she had told him earlier.

“Oh, no!” she protested. “Really, you must not. I could not allow—”

“You take wotever he is offering, ducks,” the innkeeper’s wife said with a wink. “I daresay you earned it last night.”

“Besides which,” Rannulf said, “wives are not supposed to question how their husbands spend their money, are they?”

“Not so long as it is spent on them.” The woman laughed heartily and disappeared with the dishes.

“I cannot let you—” Claire began.

He leaned across the table and set a hand over hers. “It is altogether possible,” he said, “that every hat in the shop is an abomination. But we will go and see. I want to buy you a gift. There is no question of your having earned it. A gift is simply a gift.”

“But I do not have enough money with me to buy you one,” she said.

He raised one eyebrow and got to his feet. She was a proud woman indeed. She would drive a large number of potential protectors to madness if she were ever to descend upon any of the green rooms in London.

A
ll of the bonnets on display at the milliner’s shop were indeed abominations. But any hope Judith had entertained about avoiding the embarrassment of having a gift bought for her was dashed when Miss Norton disappeared into the back of the shop and came out with another bonnet lifted on the back of her hand.

“This,” she said with an assessing glance at Ralph, “I have been keeping for a special customer.”

Judith fell in love with it on sight. It was a straw bonnet with a small brim and russet ribbons. About the upper side of the brim, where it joined the rest of the bonnet, was a band of silk flowers in the rich colors of autumn. It was not a fussy bonnet, nevertheless. Its simplicity was its main appeal.

“It suits madam’s coloring,” Miss Norton observed.

“Try it on,” Ralph said.

“Oh, but—”

“Try it on.”

She did so, helped by the fluttering hands of Miss Norton, who tied the wide ribbons for her to the left side of her chin and then produced a hand mirror so that Judith could see herself.

Ah, it was so very pretty. She could see her hair beneath it, both at the front and at the back. Every bonnet she had ever owned had been deliberately chosen by Mama—though with her full acquiescence—to hide as much of her carroty hair as possible.

“We will take it,” Ralph said.

“Oh, but—” She whirled around to face him.

“You will not regret it, sir,” Miss Norton said. “It complements madam’s beauty to perfection.”

“It does,” he agreed, taking a fat-looking purse out of a pocket inside his cloak. “We will take it. She will wear it.”

Judith swallowed awkwardly. A lady was simply not permitted to accept a gift from a gentleman who was not her betrothed. And even then . . .

How absurd! How utterly absurd after last night to be thinking of what a lady would do. And the bonnet was prettier than anything she had owned before in her life.

“Thank you,” she said and then noticed just how many bills he was handing to Miss Norton. Judith closed her eyes, appalled, and then felt all the contradictory pleasure of being the owner of something new and expensive and lovely.

“Thank you,” she said again as they left the shop and he hoisted over their heads the large, ancient black umbrella the landlord had insisted upon lending them for their sortie across the rather boggy green between the inn and the shops. “It is terribly pretty.”

“Though quite overshadowed by its wearer,” he said. “Shall we see what the general shop has to offer?”

It had a little bit of almost everything to offer, most of the wares cheap and garish and in execrable taste. But they looked at everything, their heads bent together, stifling their laughter at a few of the more hideous items. Then the shopkeeper engaged Rannulf in a discussion of the weather, which was beginning to clear up at last. The sun would be shining by the morning, the shopkeeper predicted.

Judith took her purse out of her reticule and hastily counted up her coins. Yes, there was just enough. She would have to hope that the stagecoach tomorrow would get her to her aunt’s without any more delays, for there would be nothing left for any refreshments. But she did not care about that. She picked a small snuffbox off a shelf and took it to the counter. They had laughed at it because it had a particularly ugly carving of a pig’s head on the lid. She paid for it while Ralph was wrestling the umbrella tightly closed since they would have no need of it on the return journey across the green.

She gave him the gift outside the shop doors, and he opened the paper that had been wrapped around it and laughed.

“
This
is the measure of your esteem for me?” he asked her.

“May you remember me every time you enjoy a good sneeze,” she said.

“Oh,” he said, opening his cloak and placing the snuffbox carefully into his pocket, “I will remember you, Claire. But I will treasure your gift. Did you spend your very last coin on it?”

“No, of course not,” she assured him.

“Liar.” He drew her arm through his. “It is halfway through the afternoon, and boredom has not yet driven us to bed. But I believe it is about to.
Will
we find our time there tedious, do you suppose?”

“No,” she said feeling suddenly breathless.

“That is my feeling too,” he said. “The landlord and his good lady have been feeding us well. We will somehow have to build up an appetite to do justice to the dinner they are doubtless preparing for us. Can you think of a way we can do that?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Only one?” He clucked his tongue.

She smiled. She felt pretty in her new bonnet, her gift to him was lying in his pocket, and they were on their way back to the inn to go to bed again. There was all the rest of the afternoon left, and there was all night ahead of them. She would make it an eternity.

She glanced up at the sky, but already there were breaks in the clouds and blue sky showing through. She would not look. There were hours left yet before morning came.

CHAPTER V

         L
ook at it,” she said, her voice filled with soft wonder. “Have you ever seen a more glorious sight?”

She was at the open window of their private sitting room, both elbows resting on the sill, her chin cupped in her hands, watching the sun set beneath an orange, gold, and pink sky. She was wearing a striped silk dress of cream and gold in what he was coming to recognize as her characteristic simple yet elegant style. Her hair, loose down her back, seemed dark in contrast.

He was constantly surprised by her. Who would have expected an actress to marvel at a sunset? Or to show such bright-eyed delight in a bonnet that was exquisitely pretty but by no means either ostentatious or costly? Or to giggle over a cheap, ugly snuffbox and spend the last penny of her traveling allowance on it? Or to make love with such obvious personal enjoyment?

“Ralph?” She turned her head and reached out one hand to him. “Come and look.”

“I
was
looking,” he told her. “You were part of the picture.”

“Oh, you do not need to keep on flattering me,” she said. “Come and look.”

He took her hand in his and moved up beside her at the window. The trouble with sunsets was that darkness followed quickly upon their heels. Just as the trouble with autumn was that winter was not far behind. And what was making him so maudlin?

“The sun will be shining tomorrow,” she said.

“Yes.”

Her hand tightened about his. “I am glad it rained,” she said. “I am glad the stagecoach overturned. I am glad you did not take shelter at the last town.”

“So am I.” He slipped his hand from hers and draped his arm loosely about her shoulders. She leaned in against him, and they watched the sun disappear over the edge of a distant field.

He wanted to bed her again. He fully intended to do so, as many times during the night as his energy would allow. But tonight he did not feel the urgency he had felt last night or the lusty exuberance he had felt this afternoon. Tonight he felt almost—melancholy. It was not a mood he was accustomed to feeling.

They had indulged in two energetic bouts of sex after returning from the shops—on clean sheets, he had observed. They had slept a while and then dined in private. She had acted the parts of Viola and Desdemona for him. And then she had noticed the sunset.

It was getting late. Time was running out, and he felt regret that he could not pursue their affair until it reached its natural conclusion, perhaps in a few days, perhaps not for a week or longer.

She sighed and turned her head to look at him. He kissed her. He liked the way she kissed, relaxing her mouth, opening it for him, responding to him without demanding mastery. She tasted of wine even though she had drunk only one glass this evening.

It was while he was kissing her that he conceived his idea. His brilliant idea. His
obvious
idea.

“I am coming with you tomorrow,” he said, lifting his head.

“What?” She gazed back at him, heavy-eyed.

“I am coming with you,” he repeated.

“On the stagecoach?” She frowned.

“I’ll hire a private carriage,” he said. “There must be one available here somewhere. We will travel in comfort. We—”

“But your friends,” she said.

“They will not send out any search parties,” he told her. “They do not even know exactly when to expect me. I’ll come with you to York. I have a burning desire to see you act on a real stage with other actors. And we are not finished with each other yet. Are we?”

She stared at him. “Oh, no,” she said. “I could not so inconvenience you. A private carriage would cost a fortune.”

“My purse is fat enough,” he said.

She shook her head slowly, and he had a sudden thought.

“Is there someone waiting for you?” he asked her. “Another man?”

“No.”

“Anyone else, then?” he asked. “Anyone who is likely to be offended by my accompanying you?”

“No.”

But she continued the slow head shaking. He considered another rather lowering possibility.

“
Are
we finished with each other?” he asked her. “Or will we be after one more night together? Will you be glad to be free again and on your way alone tomorrow?”

The head shaking continued, he was relieved to see.

“I want more of you, Claire,” he said. “More of your body, more of
you
. I want to see you act. I will not stay forever, only for a week or so until we are both satisfied. You are an independent woman who does not like to be tied to one man—I can see that. I am a man who enjoys brief affairs and then is content to move on. But tomorrow is too soon. Besides, you really cannot be looking forward to climbing into a stagecoach again and taking your place beside another bony holy man.”

Her head was still. For a moment she half smiled.

“Tell me you want more of me,” he said, moving his mouth closer to hers.

“I want more of you.”

“Then it is settled.” He kissed her swiftly. “We will leave here together tomorrow. I will come to York and see you act. We will spend a few more days in each other’s company, perhaps a week. Maybe longer. As long as it takes.”

She half smiled again and touched her fingertips to his cheek.

“That would be very lovely,” she said.

He set his hand over hers and kissed her palm. Who would have thought yesterday morning when he left Aidan’s, bound for Grandmaison, that he was riding straight into the arms of a new mistress and a hot affair? He had cursed the mud and the threatening rain, but both had turned into blessings.

“Ready for bed?” he asked.

She nodded.

He was feeling rather weary. Four times last night and twice this afternoon had taken some toll on his stamina and doubtless on hers too. But now tonight need not be as frantic as he had expected. They need not stay awake all night, taking full advantage of every moment. They had days and nights ahead of them, as many as they needed.

“Come, then.” He took her hand again and led her in the direction of the bedchamber. “We’ll enjoy long, slow lovemaking and then sleep, shall we?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice low and husky and curling about him with a warm, sensual promise.

         I
t was already light outside though it was probably still very early. The stagecoach was to leave from the posting inn at half past eight, the landlord had reported last evening, though he had assumed that Mr. and Mrs. Bedard would not be traveling on it.

They would not. But Judith Law would if she possibly could.

She could not go with Ralph. Where would they go?

The adventure was over. Her stolen dream was flat and empty. Dull pain settled like a heavy hand on her chest. Soon she must wake him and suggest without seeming too urgent about it that he go out to hire a private carriage. She did not have the courage to tell him the truth or even another lie. She was too much of a coward to tell him no, that she would not go with him, that she would continue her journey alone and by stage instead.

Telling him the truth would be the honorable thing to do and perhaps the kinder.

But she could not bear to say good-bye to him.

He had slept deeply all night long after they had finished making slow, almost languorous love. She had lain beside him all night, staring upward, occasionally closing her eyes but not sleeping, watching the window for signs of daylight, willing the night to last forever to prolong her agony.

It was hard to believe that just two mornings ago she had been the Judith Law she had known all her life. Now she no longer knew who Judith Law was.

“Awake already?” he asked from beside her, and she turned her head to smile at him. To drink in the sight of him, to store memories. “Did you sleep well?”

“Mmm,” she said.

“Me too.” He stretched. “I slept like the proverbial log. You certainly know how to wear a man out, Claire Campbell. In the best possible way, of course.”

“Will we make an early start?” she asked him.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and crossed to the window.

“Not a cloud in the sky,” he reported after pulling back the curtains. “And hardly a puddle left in the yard down there. There is no reason to delay. Perhaps I should go out in search of a carriage as soon as I have dressed and shaved. We can breakfast afterward, before we leave.”

“That sounds like a good plan,” she said.

He disappeared behind the screen and she could hear him pouring water from the pitcher into the bowl. She willed him to hurry. She willed time to stand still.

“Have you ever had sex in a carriage, Claire?” he asked. She could hear laughter in his voice.

“I certainly have not.” Just two days ago the question would have shocked her beyond words.

“Ah,” he said, “then I can promise you a new experience today.”

A few minutes later he appeared again, fully dressed in shirt, waistcoat, and coat with buff riding breeches and top boots, his damp hair brushed back from his freshly shaven face. He strode over to her side of the bed, bent over her, and kissed her swiftly.

“With your hair all over the pillow like that and your shoulders bare,” he said, “you are enough to tempt even the most ascetic of saints—of which number I am not one. However, business first and pleasure after. A carriage makes a very . . . interesting bed, Claire.” He straightened up, grinned at her, turned, and was gone.

Just like that.

Gone.

The silence he left behind him was deafening.

For a moment Judith was so devastated that she could not move. Then she sprang into action, jumping out of bed, darting behind the screen, dragging her clothes with her. Less than fifteen minutes later she was descending the stairs, carrying her reticule in one hand, her heavy portmanteau in the other.

The innkeeper, who was washing off a table in the taproom, straightened up and looked at her, his eyes focusing on her portmanteau.

“I need to catch the stagecoach,” she said.

“Do you?” he asked.

And then his wife came through a doorway to Judith’s left.

“What has happened, ducks?” she asked. “Been rough with you, has he? Spoken harsh words, has he? Never you mind about them. Men always speak without thinking. You got to learn to wheedle your way back into his good graces. You can do it like nothing. I seen the way he looks at you. Fair worships you, he does.”

Judith pulled her lips into a smile. “I have to leave,” she said. But she had a sudden thought. “Do you have paper, pen, and ink I can use?”

Both of them stared at her in silence for a few moments, and then the innkeeper bustled behind the counter and produced all three.

She was wasting precious minutes, Judith thought, her stomach muscles knotting in panic. He might return at any moment, and then she would have to speak the words to him. She could not bear to do that. She
could not.
She scribbled hurriedly, paused a moment, and then bent her head to add one more sentence. She signed her name—Claire—hurriedly, blotted the sheet, and folded it in four.

“Will you give this to Mr. Bedard when he comes in?” she asked.

“I will that, ma’am,” the innkeeper promised her as she bent to pick up her portmanteau. “Here, I’ll send the lad from the stables with you to carry that.”

“I have no money to pay him,” Judith said, flushing.

The landlady clucked her tongue. “Lord love you,” she said, “we will add it to
his
bill. I could take a rolling pin to his head, I could, frightening you like this.”

More precious moments were lost while the stable lad was summoned, but finally Judith was hurrying away in the direction of the posting inn, her head—clad in her new bonnet—bent low. She hoped and hoped—oh, please God—she would not run into Ralph on the way.

And yet half an hour later, as the stagecoach—a different one with a different driver and mostly different passengers—pulled out of the inn yard and onto the road north, she pressed her nose to the window and desperately looked about her for a sight of him. She felt sick to her stomach. Yesterday morning’s headache had returned with interest. She was so depressed that she wondered if this was what despair felt like.

         R
annulf returned to the inn forty minutes after leaving it, having arranged for the hire of a tolerably smart carriage and two horses at an exorbitant price. They were to be ready for him within the hour. There would be time for breakfast first. He was ravenously hungry again. He hoped Claire was not still in bed—he was also feeling lusty and she had looked very inviting when he left their room.

He took the stairs two at a time and threw the door wide. The bed was empty. She was not behind the screen. He opened the door to the private dining room. She was not there either. Dash it all, she had not waited for him but had gone down to breakfast already. But when he got to the top of the staircase he stopped suddenly, frowned, and turned back. He stepped inside their bedchamber and looked around.

Nothing. No clothes, no hairpins, no reticule. No portmanteau. His hands curled into fists at his sides and he felt the beginnings of anger. He could not pretend to misunderstand. She had slipped away and left him. Without a word. She had not even had the backbone to tell him that she was going.