Meredith found herself slipping to the ground, the blanket quickly settling over both of them, a makeshift cocoon. It was stifling and yet a reprieve from the assaulting dust. “How long do you think this will last?” Her voice was barely a croak, the dust having settled to the back of her throat. They were so close that their shoulders touched.
“Haven't any idea. Dust storms vary both in size and duration. Most are quite small and last only a few minutes.”
“You are trying to reassure me.”
He didn't glance at her, but kept holding the blanket over their heads to allow for a modicum of airflow. “You don't appear to need reassurance. So you won't blame me for being honest. I might also add that the largest storms can extend hundreds of miles and tower more than a mile into the sky, lasting several days.”
As though confirming his words, the wind's muffled fury whirled about them, the blanket becoming heavy with sand. Meredith struggled to remain calm. “I have also heard it said,” she said, licking her parched lips, “that the winds can pick up huge amounts of sand very quickly and one could find oneself buried alive.”
“While we are comparing possible disasters,” he said, his voice rising over the groan of the wind, “at least we are not in a ditch. Flash flooding can occur even if no rain is falling.”
“It appears as though this situation does not disturb you in the least. I take it that you've experienced something similar.”
He shrugged philosophically. “Unfortunately I have been in the eye of the storm once before. In the actual dust cloud, I've learned the hard way, rain generally dries up before it reaches the ground, but it may be raining nearby and quickly flood low-lying areas.” He turned to look directly at her, their breaths mingling in the excruciatingly close quarters.
At the moment, sitting quietly against him in the semidarkness, Meredith did indeed look like the woman who had outmaneuvered Montagu Faron. She sat up straight, no terror in her eyes, stoically waiting out the effects of the sudden blow, as though she'd done it many times before, breathing through the shock, convincing herself that it would ease. If she remained strong.
Archer thought of what he'd read in Whitehall's dossier and what had been hidden between the lines. Both Rushford and Rowena had been reticent to reveal what they knew about Meredith's involvement with Faron, believing the danger past and wishing to give her privacy and time to recover.
Archer felt restless with his partial knowledge of the woman now sitting by his side. He thought of the small cylinder in his saddlebags, and struggled against the impulse to push her into telling him what he needed to know. Both for his own satisfaction and Whitehall's, he reminded himself.
As though following the trend of his thoughts, Meredith turned her head toward him. “We cannot be that far from the village,” she said.
The enforced proximity obviously rankled her, much more than her fear of nature's fury. “As long as this storm continues, we might as well be on the other side of the earth,” he said.
She tipped her head to the side, thinking. “I suppose all we can do is wait.” She paused. “Unlike you, this storm is a novel experience for me.”
“You are managing remarkably well.” Archer wondered what else, and most likely far worse, might lie in Meredith's past. “What's a little dust storm,” he said with a smile, “given the challenges you've confronted in your life?” It was as close to a personal question as he dared, expecting her to shut him down with her customary crisp, one-word replies. He sensed she wouldn't welcome anyone prying into her life, having lived so long in a cocoon of isolation to protect everyone she'd loved best in the world.
Meredith hesitated so long he thought he had overshot the mark, which would do nothing but ensure continuing silence between them. But apparently, she was taking the time to respond and her voice was soft when she spoke. “We all face challenges, Lord Archer. Some more difficult to bear than others.”
A gust of wind came and the blanket shook overhead, nature's discordant symphony. He trod carefully. “Rushford told me some of what happened.” But not everything. How had she escaped from France, taking the two children with her? And why the need to flee?
She seemed to hold her body very still, as though her posture could deflect any further questions. He realized that he wanted to know her entire story, least of all because of Whitehall's directives. They saw Meredith Woolcott as a means to an end. Nothing more. The waters were muddied indeed because he found the pull toward her irresistible, an undertow that urged him to entangle himself in her life, although to what purpose? Hours ago, he had found himself touching her, tasting her, but he had pulled away at the last moment, recognizing that she was clinging to him from need that had little to do with him, and everything to do with her past. His pride still smarted.
“There is nothing important left to tell,” she said simply. “It all feels like a very long time ago.”
Archer couldn't help pressing on. “Perhaps if you tell me more, we can lay to rest what happened yesterday, at St. Julien.”
One of her hands slowly curled into a fist against her thigh. He knew that she wished to turn away from him, to be alone. Yet the sands whirling around them outside their small haven prevented her from fleeing. “What difference would it make?” she asked softly.
“We don't know unless you tell me.” Perhaps he would start somewhere different. “Have you any other family, besides Rowena and Julia?” It was an innocent enough question.
“A few distant cousins, but after my father died, I entirely lost touch.” She added fiercely, “Rowena and Julia are my family. I have raised them since they were still in the nursery, at Montfort.” Love and protectiveness radiated from her. She was alone in her sense of responsibility and guilt. That much Archer detected. He shifted his shoulder restlessly to accommodate his unease. Familial relationships were never smooth. He thought of his mother, remarried when he was at Eton and spending most of her time in Italy, and as distant from him as the moon.
“You inherited Montfort from your father, I take it,” he prodded gently.
She sighed before responding, as though the information was being wrenched from her. “My mother died shortly after I was born and my father left England for France when I was ten.”
“He never returned.”
She added abruptly, “He died in a fire, along with his young wife.” Perspiration glinted on her forehead. “Dear God, it's hot. Have I answered enough of your questions, Archer?”
Something in the rigidity of her spine warned him to desist. Fire. The secret behind the conflagration was hers to keep. “Of course,” he said, humoring her, accustomed already to her reticence. The wind moaned around them, their makeshift shelter a thin shield against nature's fury. Other women would dissolve into tears, or into his arms, or keep up a constant chatter to keep hysteria at bay. It was then the realization struck him that Meredith had earned her strength and no longer knew how to be weak. Her father and Faron and later, Rowena and Julia, had never allowed her the opportunity.
There was a silence during which the wind continued to roar for what seemed like hours but was in reality merely minutes. Despite the suffocating heat, Meredith huddled into her riding jacket, her face smudged with streaks of sand and perspiration. He tried not to stare at her, but it was difficult at the best of times, and now he was so close he could wipe the fatigue and smudges from her skin if he chose. Her singular beauty arrested him as always, etched at this moment with love, grief and intelligence.
He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his elbow, an arm still supporting the blanket overhead. Despite her frosty reception of him, Meredith Woolcott was a sensual woman, a fact he had recognized from the first moment he saw her silhouetted against the stone entranceway of Montfort. She had all but capitulated last evening, and there was every reason for him to tempt her into doing it again. Danger, he knew, was a peculiar aphrodisiac and it would be nothing for him to tip her head back into his palm and take her lips with his own for another sweet taste of her mouth. He recalled the silky skin of her throat and the suppleness of her body which he could now ease to the ground, pushing down her ridiculous trousers and looking into her gray eyes while he fitted his own body between her legs.
White heat pulsed through his veins and he closed his eyes. How long had it been since he'd had a woman? He tried to conjure Camille, but he couldn't. He took a steadying breath.
“Sometimes minutes can seem like hours,” she said, her low voice interrupting his thoughts. His shoulder brushed hers and she suddenly felt as fragile as spun glass. “Am I permitted a few questions of my own? It would be only fair.”
He opened his eyes. The blanket overhead was heavy with sand. He jabbed it with an elbow to lighten the load before answering. “There's not much to know.”
She looked askance at him. “I sincerely doubt that.”
He wanted to inch away from her but couldn't. Even their shoulders touching seemed too much. “I promise you that the story may very well put you to sleep,” he said evenly. “I am an only child, served several years in Her Majesty's Royal Navy, do not allow the moss to grow under my feet and spend far too little time in London or my estate in Essex, according to my solicitor.” He rested one hand on his knee, the other still supporting the blanket that formed a canopy over their heads. “I probably drink and gamble too much. Love to sail. And that's about all that's interesting about me, Meredith. All of which you already know.”
Stiff from sitting so long in one position, she rolled her shoulders, looking at him speculatively. “Never married?”
He went still and stared at her a moment, feigning affront. “Why is that always the first question women ask?”
She bristled. “It is your duty to marry and produce an heir.”
“So I am shirking my duties? When I have a passel of cousins who have produced the next Lord Buckingham?”
Her lips curved into a smile. She cocked her head, clearly amused. “Heaven forbid should you be occupied with something serious.” A small laugh and then she coughed, patting her chest. “Obviously, you don't miss family,” she said when she'd cleared her throat, rubbing her face carelessly to remove some of the sand and perspiration.
“I did not have a particularly close relationship with either parent, not entirely unusual, judging by the experiences of my peers. What is there to miss?”
Her expression changed. “How very sad. Whereas my life would hardly be worth living without Rowena and Julia.”
“And yet you have more in your life than your wards. You are dedicated to your scholarly work.”
She shrugged. “It all came rather naturally. My bookishness and eccentric interests did not recommend me to the wider world, but I was nonetheless encouraged heartily by my father. My unusual education allowed me to realize that I had a purpose in life.”
“You are implying that my life lacks purpose.”
“I said no such thing. Only that my work is important to me.”
“Your work,” he echoed. “Quite unusual for a woman of your background,
working.
”
“Why?” she asked sharply. “Outside the rarified world which you clearly occupy, Lord Archer, the vast majority of women in the world workâin factories, in fields, in shops, to name just several examples, whether we are speaking of London or Cairo. And although the choices for women are rather limited, I was fortunate in that my father was open-minded and had the foresight to allow me an education.”
Wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of one arm, he added, “Many women of your rank and means would be content with hearth and home. Although, trust me, I have seen much of the world and woman's role in it.”
Meredith bit back a flash of temper. “You do not believe a woman capable?” she asked with deceptive softness. “Is that your meaning?”
“Hardly. Although you seem quite sensitive to the matter. I was merely referring to your undoubted dedication to your wards.”
“I don't see the two pursuits as incompatible. As a matter of fact, both my wards were encouraged in their intellectual activities. Throughout their lives, they had the benefit of the best tutors and materials. You saw the library at Montfort.”
He nodded. Her profile, her slender nose and full lips, were lovely in the semidarkness.
“Julia has pursued photography, and has most recently helped her husband, Lord Strathmore, with his explorations in North Africa, capturing the local flora and fauna in a monograph which she hopes soon to publish.” Meredith warmed to her subject, delight in her eyes. “And of course, you are better acquainted with Rowena, who, I must tell you, was a veritable hoyden when she was a child, not that I ever discouraged her excesses.” She clasped her hands together over her knees. “She is an expert equestrienne, absolutely fearless, and courageously outspoken.”
“It would seem your wards reflect their guardian admirably.”