Daring In a Blue Dress (23 page)

“You think you can still hold that?” I asked her, unsure of whether it was wise, given the disaster. “Won't people be put off by the fire?”

“Are you kidding? They'll think it's great—can't you just imagine the pictures? Melee combat in front of the ruins of an Elizabethan house will be pure camera fodder.” She eyed Alden worriedly. “You . . . er . . . you won't mind us having the event, will you, Alden? It means the world to Vandal and me, and we promise to give you all the proceeds if you're taking funds for rebuilding. It's the least we can do.”

“You can hold it,” Alden said tiredly. “It makes no difference to me.”

“We'll take care of everything, don't you worry.” She flashed me a low-wattage smile, and beckoned me.

With a glance back at Alden, I followed her out to the hallway.

“I didn't want to say this in front of Alden, but I heard there was going to be an arson inspector out to look through the ruins once they are cool enough.”

“Arson!” I rubbed my arms. “No, not even Lisa would be crazy enough to burn down an entire house.”

“You think Lisa is responsible for the fire?” Fenice asked, looking askance. “Do you have any proof?”

“No, but I'm positive she's behind the fall he took in the gallery.” Quickly I explained my theory, adding, “It makes sense when you think of her being up to something in the secret passageways.”

“I thought you didn't find anything there but lights hung all over?”

“We didn't, except a chemistry bottle and some trash.”

Fenice looked confused, so I gave her a brief rundown of our sole finds in the secret passageways.

“How very odd. Why would Lisa leave that?”

“I don't think she did. At least, not intentionally.” I glanced back through the open door to Alden. He hadn't moved. “To be honest, I think she has a crush on Alden, and is pissed because he chose me over her, and the murder attempt in the gallery was her way of getting back. She must have found the way into the secret passages from Lady Sybilla's documents, and done some poking around there, even discovering the smugglers' cave. But there wasn't anything she could do there. Unless that's where she started the fire . . . if she did do it. I admit that it might also be a faulty gas line that started the fire, although it's damned highly suspicious that it started in Alden's room.”

“Could be. Both the plumbing and wiring are quite old.” Fenice glanced at her watch. “I'd best get a move on. See you in half an hour?”

I nodded, and she left, allowing me to return to Alden. He lay on his back, his face shadowed by beard and sorrow.

“I didn't dream it, did I?” he asked, staring up at the ceiling. “The house is really gone.”

“I'm afraid so.” I leaned forward to kiss him. “What can I do to make things better?”

“Nothing, unless you have a magical ability to reverse time.” He rubbed at his whiskery chin. “All our things were lost. Your clothes, and whatever else you brought with you. My clothes. My books. All my plans and papers.”

“You still have your laptop, though,” I pointed out.
“And I didn't lose anything but clothes and a few paperbacks. Nothing that can't be replaced. Oh, Alden, I feel so horrible for you. You have to give me something to do, something that will help you and make you feel better.”

He smiled a faint, sad smile. “I know how you feel. I want to be doing something to fix the situation, too, but there's nothing I can do. It's all useless now. I might as well sell the land to the Hairy Tit people, since they, at least, would have some use for it.”

“That's defeatist talk, right there. I think the first thing to do is to look at the remains—when you can, since I assume it's probably still unsafe to poke around now—and see if there's anything to be salvaged. And then maybe talk to the bank about getting a loan to rebuild.”

“Rebuild?” He frowned. “Why would I want to do that?”

“Because it's your home, and I like it here, and dammit, you made me fall in love with you, and that means the least you can do is provide me with a gorgeous country home on the coast of Cornwall where we can live in peace and raise children and horses and possibly sheep. I like sheep. You can use them in place of lawn mowers. Did I tell you that I did a year of agricultural management?”

He laughed, and pulled me over his chest, kissing me in a way that lit up all my insides. “No, but I'm not surprised. You'd better get to your waiting pupils before I decide that the best thing for me is incredibly steamy morning sex.”

“Hey, there's nothing that says I can't get in a quickie before class.”

He waggled his eyebrows. “Who says it will be quick?”

“Oooh.” I leaned down to kiss him, murmuring, “I do love you, you know,” against his lips.

“I know,” he said.

I thought of pinching him and telling him that now was the perfect moment for him to reciprocate, but decided he'd had enough for the last twenty-four hours, and instead took myself off for a fast shower, and a faster breakfast.

Things would get better, I promised myself as I ran down the drive to the blackened burning wreck of what used to be the house. It certainly couldn't get worse.

A
lden was beginning to feel hunted. Barry Butcher seemed to dog his footsteps for four straight days. No matter where he was, he'd turn around and there was Barry, trying to force on him a sheaf of papers and an offer for the land.

Alden tried hard not to think about Barry's offer, or the future of the house and land. Not after the bank refused to give him a loan, and his insurance agent regretfully told him that there was nothing they could do without a policy in place.

To be sure, there was the time two days after the fire when Mercy found him sitting on a fallen bit of the north wall, a notebook in hand, idly drawing an outline of what the house used to be, unmanly tears staining his cheeks.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Mercy had asked,
putting both of her arms around him, and distracting him from the depressing contemplation of the house. Her warmth and love surrounded him, cocooning him in a way that left him breathless with want.

“No,” he said, turning and kissing her. “I don't want to even think about it.”

Despite that statement, he found himself obsessed with the house. He thought about it when he woke up, his limbs pleasantly entangled with Mercy's, taking quiet pleasure in her soft snores against his shoulder. He thought about it during the day, when he threw himself wholly into the Hard Day's Knights' gearing up for Fight Knight, as well as several additional training sessions with Vandal.

“You're a natural at this,” Vandal told him, pulling off his helm. “You have the balance to remain on your feet—most of the time—and the sword arm to take down even the biggest competitor.
If
you stay focused, which you don't far too often for my liking.”

Alden unhooked his helm and peeled off his arming cap, using it to wipe the sweat from his face. “I said I was sorry.”

“You don't have to apologize to me,” Vandal replied, taking a towel and soaking it with water before wiping it over his face. “
You're
the one who took a mace to the back because you weren't paying attention.”

Alden wiggled his shoulders inside the armor, wincing at the ache in his back as he did so. He'd definitely feel that in the morning. “I'll try to be more focused, although I really don't belong competing in the Fight Knight event. I'm just an amateur.”

“We're all amateurs. And you have just as much talent as any of the other competitors, or you would if
you'd not let your mind wander.” Vandal tossed the towel into a bucket.

During his time away from the fighting ring, Alden drew plans, made lists, and brainstormed ways he could raise the funds to build something—anything—on the land that he owned, so that he could live there with Mercy and her horses and sheep and children. For a man who was determined not to think about it, he certainly spent a vast amount of time doing just that.

“What are you doing?” Mercy asked the day before the big event, stopping where he sat on a bale of hay. She had bunting in her hand, and was helping Fenice decorate the garden. “Thinking about the house?”

“Of course not,” he said resolutely, closing the notebook in which he'd been making sketches of a modified version of the old hall. “I haven't thought about it in days.”

“Right. And how's that working out for you?”

He glared at her.

She blew him a kiss. “You keep at it, Alden. I have faith in you, even if it means you have to sell off that tit part of the land so we can build our dream Bestwood Hall II: The Next Generation.”

“It's your unconditional love for me that is making you so optimistic,” he called after her. “I don't think there's any chance I can rebuild.”

She waved her hand to show she heard, but hurried off to put up the bunting.

Alden slumped on his seat of hay until Vandal approached, a clipboard in hand. “Alden, I know you aren't crazy to do a one-on-one battle, but according to the schedule the committee gave me, there's room for you if you wanted to do the triathlon duel, or the professional fight.”

“What are those?” he asked, pulling his attention from the miserable circumstances of his life. Although he wasn't particularly thrilled to be in Vandal's event, he had agreed to be a part of the big all-in melee battle.

“Triathlon is one versus one, three rounds, each round a minute and a half. First round you use long sword, second you use sword and buckler shield, and third you use your regular shield and sword.”

“That sounds painful,” Alden said.

“The professional fight might be more to your style. It's three rounds also, but three minutes per round, and each contestant uses the same randomly picked weapon. Points are given for blows by your weapon, shield, fist, leg, and knee. You're damned good with your fists, and I can show you a few leg moves this afternoon.”

“I'll do that one,” Alden said after a moment's thought. “But just so we're clear that I'm doing this as a complete novice, and won't be bringing your company any glory.”

“You don't know until you try,” Vandal said, making a note on his schedule. “I'll see you this evening, after the regular class is over, all right? Your friend Butcher has decided to form his own team, by the way.”

Alden made a noncommittal noise. “He's hardly my friend, although I'm surprised he's not fighting for you.”

“I asked him to, but he said I had enough people with you and the other students, and that he'd bring his own group.” Vandal shrugged. “So long as they pay the entrance fee, I don't care.”

Alden found it difficult to be very interested in much of anything other than Mercy. He went through the motions for the rest of the day, helping with the decorations, moving equipment, and fashioning a temporary list where the melee fights would be held. By the time
night had come upon them, he was tired, but strangely distant from everyone.

Everyone but Mercy, that is. She seemed to thaw out his frozen heart like nothing else could, the warm, happy glow about her making him feel alive again.

“Aren't you excited about tomorrow?” Mercy asked that evening when she was changing from her now somewhat ragged blue—but much beloved—archery dress into a new pair of jeans and shirt that she'd bought the day after the fire. “I am. Actually, I'm nervous as hell, especially since I'm the only archer for Fenice and Vandal. You're doing two things, aren't you? Fenice said Vandal sweet-talked you into doing another one, which will make Team Hard Day's Knights look good. Oh lord, I hope I can hit the target. That's all I ask—just hit the target and not shame myself.”

“You won't shame anyone,” he told her, relishing the aura of light and love she brought into his life. Being near Mercy made him feel like he was bathed in golden sunshine, warm and happy and contented with life. It was only when she'd gone that he returned to an icy state of indifference. “I have just as much confidence in you as you claim to have in me.”

Mercy stopped trying to examine herself in the small hand mirror she'd set on a wardrobe shelf, and turned back to him. “Are you OK, Alden?”

He looked puzzled. “I've healed up quite nicely, a fact you should know, since you've examined me each night to make sure I was lovemaking-worthy.”

Slowly she approached, sitting next to him on the bed. “I meant that in more a metaphysical way. You seem . . . depressed.”

“I am depressed. My house and sole form of livelihood
has just burned down,” he said, far more acid audible in his voice than made him comfortable. He cleared his throat and added, “There's not a lot to be ecstatically happy about in my life, present company excepted.”

She watched him silently for a moment. “Is there anything I can do?”

He smiled. “Just love me.”

“That's a given. I don't suppose you're in love with me, yet?”

He pursed his lips, and looked thoughtful.

“Honest to god, Alden, if I was as slow as you are, we'd never have gotten together.” She threw a hand towel at him, and stomped out of the room.

He caught it, his smile fading as she left, and a familiar sense of despair returned. She loved him—of that he was dead certain—but how on earth could he ask her to share his life now that he had nothing? How could he even admit to her that sometime over the past twenty days, he'd fallen as deeply in love as she had, when their life together would be fraught with stress and financial unhappiness? What sort of a man would he be to expect her to bind her life to his only to end up sharing his poverty?

“Dammit,” he swore to himself. “I'm going to have to take Barry's offer.”

You can start anew,
he told himself, washing his face and hands.
You can use the money to buy a smaller house, one that isn't so historical, and renovate that and then flip it. Mercy would like that.

Mercy liked Bestwood Hall. For that matter, so had he. If only there was a way he could rebuild without having to sell off any more land.

Dinner that evening was a lively affair, made more
so because the gatehouse was playing host to not just its regulars but also a handful of people present for the battle on the following day.

“This is Tamarind,” Fenice said, introducing a tall, elegant black woman who had bright red hair. “She's a workmate who was in the area, so she thought she'd stop by to watch the proceedings tomorrow.”

“Too bad you're not a fighter,” Vandal said, strolling up and giving Tamarind a clearly lascivious once-over. “If I told you that you have the body for it, would you hold it against me?”

Alden almost groaned at the blatant way Vandal was flirting, but Tamarind needed no help in taking her swain down a peg or two.

“Not likely, mate. Didn't your sister tell you? I prefer the other side.” Tamarind smiled at everyone before turning to Alden, who was seated next to her. Her voice dropped to an intimate level. “I heard about your house. I'm so sorry.”

“Thank you,” Alden said, experience having taught him how to politely escape the well-wishers. “That's very kind of you. The house is mostly destroyed, although there is one wall still standing.”

“Do you know the cause of the fire?”

“No. I assume there will be an investigation at some point.”

“No doubt,” Tamarind said. “Fenice told me—I hope this isn't a painful subject, given the fire, but I am very interested in caves and such—Fenice told me about your smugglers' cave. Evidently it leads up to the house proper?”

“It did.” Alden, distracted for a few minutes by the obvious interest in Tamarind's face, told her about the
discovery of the secret passageways. “I'm sure one of the previous Baskervilles used the passages to transport wine and rum, although we found no signs of any hidden cache, more's the pity.”

She laughed. “I can imagine that such a thing would be quite valuable today. It's interesting about those lights you said were strung along the passageways. That can't have been a product of the free-traders.”

“No, I gather Sir James Baskerville had them installed.” He glanced down the long table in the dining room, where Lady Sybilla sat next to her maid, both of them picking at their spaghetti dinner. “Although Lady Sybilla claimed that the passages hadn't been used for at least a century or two.”

“How very curious. Do you think she was hiding something?”

“Possibly.” He gave Tamarind a long look. “Then again, I think it's possible you're doing the same.”

She blinked at him, a half smile on her lips. “Me? What would I have to hide?”

“Fenice said you were a workmate, but given that she is with the police, that could mean a great many things, couldn't it? It might even stretch to someone who was responsible for looking into house fires.”

Tamarind's smile grew. “You're a perceptive man, Mr. Ainslie.”

“Alden, please.”

She glanced around the table before saying quietly, “As a matter of fact, I'm with a different branch altogether. But I can assure you that the fire is being looked into. Would you mind if I had a peek into your cave?”

“I beg your pardon!” Mercy, in the middle of a lively
conversation with one of Vandal's Swedish friends who had shown up with his team for the competition, evidently caught just the tail end of the conversation with Tamarind. “You want to do what to his what?”

Alden couldn't help but smile at the outrage in her voice, and was tempted to tell her right then and there just how much he loved her, but he couldn't do that to her. He had to find a way to provide some sort of a life for them both before he could ask her to join him. “You misheard, Mercy. She was asking to look into the smugglers' cave.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Mercy looked mollified for a few seconds, then frowned. “Why would you want to do that?”

Tamarind gave an enigmatic smile. “Perhaps I'm a big fan of caves.”

Mercy said nothing, but Alden noticed that she glanced at the other woman several times during the rest of the dinner.

“To bed, to bed!” Vandal called after another hour. By then, Lady Sybilla and Adams had retired, and the rest of the group—including the Berserkers, as the Swedish combat team were known, and a handful of Vandal's British friends—were scattered around the ground floor of the gatehouse, singing, drinking, and generally having a good time. “I want all of Team Hard Day's Knights in bed!”

“You can't have us,” one of the local students answered. “Not while there are ale wenches to be amused!”

“I'll wench your ale,” Mercy said, having reentered the dining room after a visit to the loo.

“Promise?” the local asked, to the cheers of the Berserkers.

“I will if you all don't keep it down. Lady Sybilla is trying to sleep, and you lot are making enough noise to drown out a bull elephant in full trumpet.”

“Aw, you know how to take the poop out of every party,” Lisa said, her words slurring a little. She was seated on the lap of one of the Swedes, and leaned out to the side, almost falling off him.