Elizabeth Thornton (32 page)

“No,” she said not very convincingly.

Another shaken laugh, then he took her lips again.

He had to touch her, had to feel every small bone in her spine, the hollow of her waist, the curve of her hip, just to reassure himself that she was all right. But she wasn’t all right. She seemed helpless and lost, and not like the Abbie he knew. He wanted to give her his strength; he wanted to wrap himself around her like a shield so that nothing could hurt her ever again.

He shifted slightly and drew her closer. Her arms crept around his neck; her body softened against his. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “It’s all right.”

Huge gray eyes shadowed with needs that had nothing to do with passion or a pleasuring of the senses stared up at him. He felt his body clench in response. “It’s all right,” he said again, “I’m here.”

His hands slid along her shoulders, and his fingers
tangled in her hair. He kissed her eyes closed, then his lips moved to her brows, her cheeks, the long sweep of her throat. She was trembling, but so was he. It was only a kiss … and it was more than a kiss.

She was lost in him, lost in the comforting protection of the arms that held her, in the granite-hard pressure of his chest. When he held her like this, she felt as though nothing could stop her. She wasn’t going to fail. She could do anything. Just as long as Hugh was there.

They slipped into passion as easily as day slips into night. She breathed out an inarticulate sound, and he took it in to his own mouth. Their lips became fevered. As his body hardened, hers became more pliant. His hand found her breast, and she shifted to give him freer access to her body. Pure sensation blocked out rational thought. Their kisses became greedy.

When he pulled back he had to struggle to even his breathing. “Not here,” he said, “where we can be disturbed. We can go to my house—no, that’s no good either. Let’s go to a hotel.”

She touched her fingers to her burning lips and stared at him in a daze. But as his words registered, she took a quick step back. “Now why should we do that?”

His dark eyes were suddenly watchful. “To make love. To make up our quarrel.”

She crossed her arms over her breasts and hugged herself as though to keep warm. “I don’t think so.”

“Then what?” He stopped. “You were paying me back in my own coin?” His eyes searched her face. “No. Some women could, Abbie, but not you. You’re not made in that mold.”

Is that how he saw her, as a doormat? It didn’t matter. He’d handed her a perfect excuse to explain her temporary
insanity and keep him at arm’s length. “Don’t be too sure of that, Hugh. You were an excellent teacher and I’m a quick study. And we Vayles never forget a wrong.”

She left him with her head held high and pride stiffening her spine. It would have been a magnificent exit, thought Hugh, if he had not caught the glint of tears in her eyes.

A
bbie tested the weight of the pistol in her hand. It came from Daniel’s collection and was supposed to be a suitable firing piece for a lady. It was much smaller and lighter than the pistol she’d practiced with at Endicote, but it was still too large to fit into an evening pochette or be carried in the folds of a diaphanous gown. Her mother had solved the problem by producing a white swansdown muff with its own matching scarf.

She couldn’t look at a pistol now without thinking of Harper. Strange as it seemed, she actually missed the old buzzard. Not that he was old. He couldn’t have been more than forty. He was just battered and worn around the edges. But he had a soft center.
He’d
looked back after Hugh handed her over to Maitland.
Harper
, whom she’d once disliked intensely, who was supposed to be a misogynist. And the man she loved, or thought she loved, had sent her to hell.

If she had to swallow any more lumps in her throat, she would gag. Frowning in concentration, she tried to recall all that Harper had told her about the use of firearms. She would only have one shot, so she should hold
back until she could make it count. She mustn’t get too close to an opponent because, inexperienced as she was, it would be all too easy to disarm her. She must keep her eyes on the target and break the nasty habit she’d got into of turning her head away just before she pulled the trigger.

She could almost hear Harper’s exasperated sigh when she’d explained that she turned her head away because she didn’t like the smell of gunpowder or the deafening report of the shot.

Her faint smile faded completely as she set the pistol on her dressing table. This was hopeless. It wouldn’t matter if she
were
an expert shot. She could never fire at anyone, not even the monster who had murdered Colette, the man who had attacked her in her own bed. She simply did not possess the killer instinct.

Nemo. That was his code name, and he possessed the instincts of a jungle cat. Giles had found out more about him, and they knew they were up against a professional. According to Giles, Whitehall had been thrown into a panic by the report that Nemo was in England. They’d never had to deal with anyone of his caliber before.

For her to be taking on Nemo was so ludicrous that she would have laughed if she were not so scared. Who did she think she was? Is this how David felt when he went out to meet Goliath? But David was brave. She would rather run than fight. Why had Colette chosen her, of all people? Why?

Hopeless, she thought again, and her shoulders drooped.

When she looked up, she saw that her mother had entered her room and was watching her with dull, troubled eyes, and that gave her a pang. The poise that Abbie had always taken for granted in her mother had been savaged.
Her mother would start to say something, stop in midsentence, then walk out of the room. She suffered more than any of them, and her children had become fiercely protective of her. They shielded her as much as possible from their own doubts and uncertainties.

Abbie made a small movement with her hand. “The pistol is only a precaution, Mama. I promise I’ll be careful.”

Lady Clivendon said, “I can’t help worrying, Abbie. I’ve always worried more about you than the others. You and George, well, you always needed looking after.” Her hand went to her hair in a vague, distracted gesture; her eyes filmed with tears. “How could it have come to this, with everything depending on you?”

“Would it make you feel better if everything depended on Harriet and Daniel?”

Lady Clivendon bit her lip. “No. I don’t know. I love all my children. I just wish—”

“What?”

“I’d been a better mother to you all.”

This was one of the hardest things to bear, this constant soul-searching. Everyone felt guilty; they all felt they’d failed George in some way, and now they were trying to make up for it with each other.

It had certainly brought them closer together as a family, but Abbie would have given anything to return to the old days when they could be careless of each other’s feelings, quarreling and bickering without hesitation.

She put her arms around her mother. “I don’t remember being deprived as a child,” she said.

Her ladyship said, “Deprived of love is what I meant. Your father always said I didn’t know how to show my feelings, and he was right.”

“You did know how to show your feelings,” said Abbie. “Maybe not in words but in actions. No, listen,
Mama. When we were children and Papa would send us wonderful presents from faraway places, well, that wasn’t Papa, was it? That was you.”

Her mother’s mouth gaped. “You knew about the presents? But how could you have known?”

“Because when Papa came home, he had trouble remembering what gifts he’d sent, and you were right there beside him to prompt his memory. It wasn’t hard for us to figure out.”

Not hard at all when some of the presents they received were silks from China and ivories from Africa—places their father had never visited. To Mama’s way of thinking, “foreign” was anywhere that was not England.

“You all knew?”

“All of us. And we thought it was sweet.”

“I wanted you to remember that you had a father, and that he loved you. And he did love you. It was just that he was away so much and he was—”

“Busy,” supplied Abbie when her mother faltered. “But you were never too busy for us, Mama. Sometimes we children wished that you were.”

Her mother did not smile. “Your father was a good man.”

“I know.”

“I still miss him.”

“I know that too.”

“Well, well.” Her ladyship dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say, except that I’m proud of you. I want you to know that, Abbie.”

The tickle in Abbie’s throat threatened to become one of those awful lumps, and she said lightly, “And I love you, too, Mama.”

“Yes,
that’s
what I wanted to say. Well, well, stand back and let’s have a look at you.”

Abbie obediently took a step back, and her mother made a critical inspection, studying the raven black wig laced with Harriet’s diamonds, the sooty eyebrows and lashes that she herself had darkened with blacking, and the ravishing gown that had cost Giles a small fortune. “If I were not your mother,” she said, “I would not recognize you. Until this moment, I did not realize how much you and Harriet look like each other.”

She looked steadily into Abbie’s eyes. “Abbie, you will be careful?”

“Of course, I will. We’re not fools. I’m not going into that box with the book in my hands. I’ll talk to these people, that’s all. Then after that, Daniel and Giles will make the exchange.” Her mother didn’t look convinced, and Abbie went on, “Mama, the theater will be crowded. They won’t do anything in a crowded theater. And remember, it’s the book they want, not me or George.”

“George,” whispered her ladyship, and she turned away as her face began to crumple. “No, I’m not going to cry. He’s alive. Daniel is sure the letter is genuine. But I can’t help wondering … imagining …,” She straightened as if gathering herself to face an onslaught. “At least I don’t feel so useless now.” She gave Abbie a weary smile. “That’s the worst part, the waiting. But that’s over.”

Abbie felt anguish blooming inside her. She had been imagining things, too, things no one dared put into words. Had they hurt George? Was he frightened? Was he cold? Was he hungry? Did he think every moment would be his last? Did he think his family had forgotten him? And where was he? Where, in God’s name, was he?

She forced her fears to recede. For her mother’s sake,
she had to appear calm and in control of the situation. “It’s time,” she said quietly.

She picked up the pistol and was about to thrust it into her muff when she remembered something else Harper had told her. She could almost hear his voice roaring in her ear.

“Just who do you thinks you is? A bleeding officer? Get that glove off your hand! You’re supposed to feel as though the pistol is a part of you. Think of it as a lover, you knows, bare skin to bare skin.” And he had winked at her.

What a rogue he was! But a nice rogue. Hopeless though it might be, she couldn’t disobey Harper. She peeled the glove from her right hand, stuck it in her pochette, then picked up the gun and thrust it into her muff.

They were crossing to the door when Harriet entered. She was dressed very demurely in a puce gown. Her eyebrows had been lightened and her blond wig was threaded with ribbon.

She unfurled her fan, peeked over its rim, and dipped a curtsy. “Miss Abigail Vayle,” she said, “at your service. Well, will I do?”

“Oh my,” said her ladyship, looking from one daughter to the other. “I think you’ll both do very well.”

Daniel and Giles were waiting for them at the foot of the stairs. They, too, were amazed at the transformation in Abbie and Harriet.

“Do you have the book, Daniel?” asked Abbie.

He patted his coat pocket. “Right here.”

Everyone looked grim. “We’re supposed to be having a good time,” said Giles. “Let’s act like it.”

They left the house laughing and talking and did not stop until their carriage had turned the corner into the Strand. Giles was looking out the window.

“We’re being followed.” he said.

It was what they expected to hear. Maitland’s people were vigilant. They never let up.

Harriet leaned across the width of the carriage. “Don’t worry, Abbie,” she said softly. “I’ll draw them off. I won’t let you down.”

Abbie smiled and nodded, but the nerves in her stomach began to twist themselves into knots.

Those nerves got tighter and tighter as the evening wore on. The first act was a comic opera, and the audience in the pit was so unruly that the performance had to be halted until order was restored. This wasn’t unusual, but Abbie was so wound up that any delay only added to her agony.

When the first intermission came, they kept the door to their box locked to deter unwanted visitors. The minutes dragged by endlessly. They spoke very little. Everything had been said. Daniel kept looking at his watch; Giles’s hand strayed frequently to the waistband of his trousers where he’d concealed his pistol, and Abbie’s fingers flexed and unflexed around the butt of the firing piece inside her muff. It seemed so unreal, so preposterous. They were just ordinary people. How could it have come to this?

They breathed out a collective sigh when Colman’s
Clandestine Marriage
got underway. Abbie had seen it with George at Covent Garden and considered it a masterly production. Tonight, the actors might as well have been reciting the Bible backward for all she heard. She was numb with fear, thinking of all the things that could go wrong.

She jumped when Giles put his hand on her shoulder. “It’s time,” he whispered.

“So soon?”

He nodded, and with an encouraging wink, slipped out the door.

He wasn’t going far. His job was to look around before the second intermission. When he came back, they’d put their own little play into motion.

Not long after the curtain came down, he returned. “Just as we thought,” he said. “Maitland’s man is out there.”

“Which one is it this time?” asked Daniel.

“Cassius.”

“Ah. The one with the lean and hungry look. What is he doing?”