What Wild Moonlight (3 page)

The question seemed to catch him off-guard. He fumbled for a moment, as though searching for a suitable amount, then replied, “Twenty-five francs a person.”

“I’ll pay ten.”

The Englishman arched one dark brow in a look of mild surprise, then with a careless shrug of his broad shoulders said simply, “Agreed.”

He must need the money more desperately than she had imagined to consent so readily to the lower fare. Katya felt a momentary twinge of guilt for depriving him of his income, but she quickly brushed the feeling aside. After all, she reasoned, she was in no position to be generous.

The negotiations complete, she dug into her carpetbag and removed the money. She held the notes out to him, then abruptly pulled her hand back as a thought occurred to her. “I don’t suppose you have any references as to your good character?” she demanded, eyeing him distrustfully.

“My what?”

“Your good character, sir. Something to assure us that you are a man of honor and integrity.”

A sardonic smile touched his lips, as though he found the very idea mildly entertaining. “Even if I had such references—and I can assure you they don’t exist—I doubt very much I would carry them around in my pocket, waiting to show them off to every stranger I met in a roadside tavern.”

“Then how are we to know you truly intend to see us to Monaco, rather than just rob us of our possessions and abandon us on a seaside cliff?”

“Do I look the part of a notorious highwayman?” he challenged.

Katya’s eyes once again swept over his meticulously tailored attire. Aware that he was waiting for her reply, she tilted her chin, forcing herself to meet his cool, mocking gaze. “The quality of a man’s clothing is hardly an accurate measure of the quality of his character.”

“Aptly put. I suppose that means you’ll just have to trust me, won’t you?” He studied her for a moment longer, then lifted his shoulders in a bored shrug, as though their discussion had grown tedious. “Or you can wait here for the next coach. The choice is yours.”

Unfortunately, she was in no position to wait. Her appointment with Monsieur Remy was scheduled for eight o’clock that evening, and she couldn’t afford to miss it. She had little choice at the moment but to hand over her money and hope for the best.

“You’ll take the coach all the way to Monaco?” she pressed, holding out two five-franc notes.

He inclined his head with a graceful nod. “All the way to Monaco.”

“Fine.” Remembering one more thing, she snatched the money back once again as he reached for it. “By tonight?”

The hint of a smile she had seen earlier now blossomed into a full-blown, cocky grin. The sudden splash of pearly white teeth, contrasted against the bronzed glow of his skin and the ebony fire in his eyes gave him a startling, almost luminous air of sensuality. He crossed his arms over his broad chest, studying her for a long moment in amused, and rather patronizing silence.

“Is this some sort of a game you’re playing, Miss…?”

“Alexander,” she supplied briskly. She knew she looked the part of an unraveled fool, but she infinitely preferred a teaspoon of caution to a cupful of reckless remorse. “I do not mean to play games, sir. I merely wish to assure that we will arrive safely in Monaco by this evening, that is all. I have urgent business to attend.”

“I see.”

His dark eyes swept over her once again, this time moving in a slow, open appraisal. His gaze traveled from the unadorned straw hat on her head to the reading spectacles perched on the end of her nose, then on to the few wayward ebony curls that had sprung free from the tight bun in which she had captured them that morning. His undisguised assessment continued as he took in the dark gray, high-collared and loose-fitting traveling ensemble and low-heeled, practical boots, and it finished with the scuffed and well-worn carpetbag she clutched in her hand.

He seemed to come to some conclusion, for the light that had filled his eyes only moments earlier abruptly dimmed. “In that case,” he suggested flatly, “I suggest we delay no further.” He took her money and tucked it into the pocket of his jacket. Then he turned away without another word, seeing to the needs of the other passengers.

His abrupt dismissal left Katya wishing she had selected a more becoming gown when she had dressed that morning. Or that she had at least bothered to remove her spectacles. Irritated by her preposterous reaction, she abruptly dismissed the matter of her appearance. What she wore was entirely sensible, given the dirt and debris she encountered while traveling the dry, dusty roads that lined the Cote d’Azur. Beyond that, she was still in mourning for her parents. The fact that her attire apparently didn’t meet the lofty standards of their newly acquired coachman was hardly a matter of concern.

Fortunately the tavern owner had no objection to the Englishman serving in their driver’s stead. Not knowing what else to do with herself, Katya listened as the stranger extracted his fee from the other passengers and then took direction as to the proper handling of the stage: the route he should follow, the stops he was required to make, and where he should deposit the horses and coach once they reached Monte Carlo. The business was finalized in short order and the group was ushered out of the dimly ht tavern and back into the stuffy confines of their coach.

The vehicle rocked and swayed as the Englishman climbed to his open-air perch above their cabin; then it jerked forward as the horses established a steady rhythm. Relieved that the stranger could apparently handle the team, Katya turned her attention to the other occupants of the coach. Her seat-mates included a rather portly businessman from Marseilles who stank of fish and began snoring almost as soon as the vehicle was in motion, a pair of young lovers who sat scandalously close to one another and whispered back and forth in fervent Italian, and an elderly couple from England, Lord and Lady Stanton, with whom Katya had recently made an acquaintance.

“Heavens, Miss Alexander, you needn’t balance that heavy bag on your lap all the way to Monaco,” Lady Stanton protested as Katya settled her carpetbag on her knees. “We may be a bit crowded in here, but surely we can make a bit more room.”

“That’s quite all right, I don’t mind.”

“Nonsense.” Lady Stanton tapped her husband authoritatively on the arm. “Do help her with her bag, my dear.”

Katya hesitated briefly, then released her bag to the smiling, elderly lord, who placed it on the floor beside his wife’s bag.

“There now, isn’t that better?” Lady Stanton inquired pleasantly.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“I should think so.” Lady Stanton sniffed approvingly. “Now that we’re all comfortable, my dear, do allow me the liberty of making a few suggestions for your trip.” The older woman abruptly launched into a long-winded but well-meaning lecture, directing Katya to all the glorious sights awaiting her within the any principality of Monaco.

Katya listened politely, nodding from tune to time as she feigned interest in what the other woman said. The information offered, however, was of little use to her. She was twenty-three years old, alone, and nearly penniless. She could ill afford to waste either time or money on idle pleasure-seeking.

As Lady Stanton rambled on, Katya’s thoughts turned inward. For what seemed like the hundredth time since she had left London, she questioned the wisdom of this trip, particularly now that her meeting with Monsieur Remy was so close at hand. What if he should deny her request? She had foolishly refused to even consider the possibility months ago, but now she could think of almost nothing else. What would become of her if Monsieur Remy said no? The question echoed through her mind with the haunting finality of a funeral bell.

At last the coach rumbled to a stop, jarring her out of her depressing reverie. She heard the springs creak and groan above her as their newly acquired driver climbed down from his seat. He opened the door with a flourish and let down the passenger stair. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “Nice.”

Katya stepped out of the stuffy dimness of the stage. Brilliant Mediterranean sunshine flooded the courtyard, providing a welcome relief from her dismal thoughts. Once her eyes had adjusted to the light, she couldn’t help but gaze around in open admiration, instantly charmed at what she saw.

Directly to her west was the Baie des Anges, the Bay of Angels, a sparkling azure port filled with an assortment of pleasure boats and fishing vessels. On the rocky beach below them fishermen barked out their prices, selling that morning’s catch. Their calls competed with the bustling shouts coming from the marketplace, which consisted of a thriving series of stalls and intricate alleyways. A fountain bubbled in the center of the square, providing the music of softly gurgling water to the scene around her. To her east was an area that looked primarily residential. Tall pink buildings with red tile roofs were stacked tightly together and connected by a maze of laundry lines. A soft breeze carried a myriad of rich scents: fresh soap, rich coffee, sizzling meat, the salty tang of the sea, and the sweet fragrance of lemon blossom.

As her fellow passengers disembarked and headed toward a café, Katya hesitated, loathe to be again confined inside on such a beautiful day.

“Are you coming, Miss Alexander?”

She turned to find the Englishman waiting for her. Shaking her head, she replied instead, “I believe I prefer to stretch my legs a bit first.”

“Don’t get lost. We’ll be ready to depart again in thirty minutes.”

Irritated by his autocratic tone, particularly now that he was in her employ, she turned without a word and strode purposefully toward the marketplace. Her appetite was stimulated by the open air and the tantalizing aromas wafting around her, and she stopped at a boulangerie to choose one of the shop’s luscious offerings. Finally she selected a crusty slice of thick, freshly baked bread that had been liberally sprinkled with olive oil, basil, and oregano, then piled high with chunks of ruby ripe tomato, shiny black olives, grilled eggplant, and rich cubes of pungent goat cheese.

In London it was considered scandalous to eat while strolling through the streets. But then, an unaccompanied woman traveling abroad was beyond scandal. That realization made her relish her freedom and her food all the more. She would enjoy both while they lasted. She walked through the marketplace, eyeing the vast selection of merchandise. She walked past shops displaying bolts of traditional Provençal fabrics, rough clay pottery, spectacular beaded jewelry, silky lace shawls, candied fruit, purple cabbages, plump little sausages, lush stalks of gladioli, and fragrant bunches of mimosa. Although she would have loved to while away the afternoon exploring the town, she was too mindful of time passing to fully enjoy herself. Reluctantly she turned and made her way back to the coach.

She found the square with no trouble, but their coach remained empty. Apparently the other passengers were still inside the café. Her spirits buoyed by the fresh air and a full stomach, Katya set down her carpetbag and took a seat on the edge of the courtyard fountain.

Her gaze was drawn almost at once to the old Nice castle. Built centuries ago to protect its residents against Saracen invaders, its thick rock walls jutted up almost mystically against the harbor, as if it had risen from the sea itself. Its crenellated walls, ancient turrets, and crumbling battlements seemed to teem with life and cast an odd medieval spell over the city Katya closed her eyes and imagined herself under the castle’s protection, watched over through the centuries. It was a purely whimsical thought, but one which pleased her nonetheless.

Suddenly the warmth of the sun disappeared and a chill ran through her, as though the castle’s protection had abruptly vanished. She opened her eyes to discover the driver standing beside her, his long shadow looming over her. Her first thought was that he was standing too close to her. On closer reflection, however, she realized that he stood no closer to her than anyone else. Yet his presence seemed somehow magnified, almost as though he were touching her.

He had removed his jacket and cravat, she noted immediately. Unable to stop herself, her gaze moved briefly over the Englishman’s body. His crisp white shirt was slightly open at the neck, revealing a glimpse of his broad chest. He had also rolled up the sleeves, drawing her attention to his powerful forearms and fine brown leather riding gloves. His dark hair was swept back and tousled by the breeze; his skin was bronzed from the sun. In the bright light of day his ebony eyes appeared even more dark and mysterious.

Katya considered the man silently. While there was nothing distinctly offensive or improper about him, he seemed to exude a rugged, almost aggressive air of sensuality that she found faintly disturbing. He brought to mind a pack animal that had been cast out and was forced to hunt alone. A beautiful animal perhaps, but one that was ultimately dangerous. Bearing that in mind, she sent him a curt nod, then gathered her belongings and stood to leave.

As she took a step away from him she was confronted by the sight of the young Italian lovers with whom she had shared the coach. They were standing against a thick clay wall and presumably believed that no one could see them. Locked in a scandalous embrace, they shared a deep, intimate kiss. As the young man’s hand moved caressingly up his inamorata’s thigh, Katya turned abruptly away, blushing furiously.

Unfortunately she turned directly into the Englishman’s arms. As he brought up his hands to steady her, she was immediately engulfed by the heady, warm scent of his skin. Not knowing where else to look, she bravely tipped back her chin to meet his eyes. Judging from the knowing expression on his face, it was all too evident that he had also witnessed the scene.

Embarrassment flooded her. She stiffened her spine and stepped back, inquiring in cool rebuff to his unspoken amusement, “Are we departing soon?”

“In a minute.” His gaze skimmed over her once again. His eyes were so dark they seemed to absorb the sunlight; yet they offered back none of the sun’s warmth. He studied her for a moment in silence, as though she were a puzzle whose pieces he was trying to connect. “American?” he said at last.