In My Wildest Dreams (21 page)

She stalked down the empty corridor.

He followed close on her heels. “You were gossiping about me to the servants.”

“I was not.
They
were gossiping.
I
was retorting. Infernally uncomfortable it made me, too.” Uncomfortable was the least of it. Tears sprang to her eyes.
“I'm
caught between two worlds, and all
you're
interested in is your precious sublime character.”

Derision still reigned in him when he asked, “When you decided you would have Ellery by any means possible, did it not occur to you you would have to decide whether you would be upstairs or down, in the garden or in the house?”

Of course it hadn't. In her dream, she moved smoothly between the
ton
and the servants. Being brought forcibly face-to-face with reality did not endear Garrick to her. “When I decided I would have Ellery, I didn't think I would have his brother humiliating me in the conservatory.”

“There's the crux of the matter. You're angry because I . . . humiliated you.” He pushed her, resisting, backward into the same alcove she'd so recently occupied with Ellery.

She shoved at Garrick's chest, a foolish gesture for one who knew so well the steadfastness of the man, as well as the strength of his frame. “Let me go. I am not doing this again with you.”

Paying no heed to her resistance, he placed his hands on the wall behind her. “Is that all it was? A humiliation?”

She wanted to stare sternly up at him. Instead she remembered her own discovery of ecstasy, and looked everywhere but at him. “You know what it was. It was a
deliberate act of . . . you pleasured me with the sole intention of proving your command over me.”

“I admit that.” But he didn't
like
admitting it.

“And don't you dare tell me I incited you.
Nothing
that happened in the conservatory was my fault.”

“I take total responsibility.”

He didn't like that, either. And it didn't make her feel better.

“Why? I want to know why.”

“I lost my temper. It was a new experience for me. I didn't handle it well. I beg your pardon for any distress I may have caused you.” He shot short, blunt sentences at her, using the right words of repentance, but a tone of such intense annoyance she might have been holding a gun to his head.

She did not appreciate the sentiment. “Temper is no excuse.”

“I know that! Do you think I don't know that? I have never allowed anyone who works for me such a feeble defense. I would discharge any man who tried to excuse himself in such a manner.” He paced away from her, allowing her a brief breathing space. Then he paced right back to steal her air. “But I cannot discharge myself, I can only offer my sincerest apologies for any distress I may have caused you, and beg that you forgive me.”

Infuriated by that mockery of a repentance, she shook her finger at him. “That is not an apology, that is a command.”

Dull red climbed into his cheeks. “I am not in the habit of apologizing. I apologize if my apology was unrefined.”

“Oh, I feel so much better now.” She dipped every word in the acid of sarcasm. “I don't understand you. I
don't understand how you could carry out such a cold seduction.”

“Cold?” Fire leaped to life in his gaze. “You call that cold?”

“Yes, I do!” Now color rose in her cheeks as she remembered how she'd moaned and writhed under his masterful touch.
“You
were never affected.”

Leaning his face so close she saw every frown line and furious grimace, he asked, “Was I not, my dear Miss Milford? Then tell me why I spent the night—”

A door slammed upstairs. Voices called.

Garrick lowered his voice. “—Pacing the corridors, holding my—”

“Mind your language, Mr. Throckmorton!” But she was glad to hear he'd been awake and in agony.

“I'll do as I please, Miss Milford.” Leaning over, he kissed her. “And as you please,” he muttered.

Gripping his cravat between her hands, she wished first to strangle him. He acted as if he could do anything he desired with her, as if an apology grudgingly given could soothe her vexation. She wanted to cherish her rancor, not be beguiled so easily he would think himself exceptionally gifted in seduction.

But he kissed like a man in the throes of desperation. He held her as if she were his last hope of happiness. He took her breath as if it were life to him. Each thrust of his tongue was slow and sweet, and yes, she should hold him off, but the steamy warmth built and her blood heated, she yielded, melted, wished she was back in the conservatory, gasping beneath him.

More voices called above, but she barely heard them. Instead, she thrust her hands into his hair, holding him prisoner to her desire.

When they broke apart, gasping for breath, she managed a reproach rendered ineffective by her pliant body against his. “You ought to be ashamed for deliberately mortifying me.”

“I've suffered,” he assured her feverishly.

Feet stampeded across the wooden floors above.

Taking her hand, he guided it to the front of his trousers.

Of course she knew how a man was built, for she had visited Rome, awash with decadent statues. Of course she understood the rudiments of mating, for she'd lived in the country for her first eighteen years. But to actually touch a man, to discover what desire could induce . . . she didn't know if she should remain to explore or run shrieking to safety.

Exploration beckoned. She wrapped her fingers around his manhood, slid her palm up and down the length. And the length was so great . . . shrieking and running seemed like a good idea, too.

She verified her misgiving with another sweep of her hand, not believing he actually contained within him so much desire which he wished her to take into her self. Looking into his gaze, she whispered, “It's impossible.”

“It's not the span of the wand, it's the magic contained within,” he whispered back.

“It would have to be magic.”

“I promise enchantment.” Closing his eyes, he pressed her hand hard against him.

“You promised you wouldn't.”

“You can't hold me to that. You can't.” Pain or passion etched his features, made austere with an ardor she didn't yet completely understand. “But you're right. I will not . . . I shouldn't . . . but we've got this.” Placing
both her hands around his neck, he kissed her again. His hips rolled against her.

Footsteps ran down the stairs.

How did he do this? How could one kiss from this man induce anger, euphoria, and above all, desire? It wasn't fair that when he pressed his lips to hers, she forgot his sins and remembered only the gratification of being held in his arms, titillated and cared for and taught. She wanted to be incensed. Instead she was desperate to lie down with him and discover the magic he promised.

A large woman ran past, calling in frantic tones, “Mr. Throckmorton. Where are ye, Mr. Throckmorton!”

All of him, all of his desire and his determination had been focused on Celeste.

Now his formidable attention snapped away from her. Without a gesture or a sign of regret, he stepped out of the alcove. “Mrs. Brown! What's wrong?”

The plain, unshakable nursemaid sounded sick with anxiety. “Have ye seen th' two little girls?”

Guilt and apprehension crowded out Celeste's frustration. Joining Garrick, she demanded,
“Why?”

“They're gone.” Mrs. Brown held up a piece of crumpled paper with smooth, block lettering. “Miss Penelope left a note. She said Miss Kiki had run away, and she was going after her.”

20

“I
told you not to come. Why did you come?”

Penelope slogged along after Kiki, answering her in English because while Kiki insisted on speaking in French, Penelope could be stubborn, too. “Because every time you get in trouble, you get all the attention, and I'm tired of it.” Which was true, Penelope told herself stoutly, except right now she was suffering a twinge, just the smallest twinge, of worry about Kiki.

She didn't know why she should. For the past year, Kiki had made Penelope's life miserable. She had come in all pretty and Frenchified, dancing and singing like a street performer, prancing about making trouble and in general being a tagalong pest. But something about this petulant, head-tossing, foot-stomping tantrum seemed different.

Probably that Kiki had done all her head tossing and foot stomping after Penelope had caught up with her, and
without the benefit of any other audience. “Where do you think you're going to go?” Penelope asked.

Kiki stomped her foot in a puddle and tossed her head.
“Chez moi.”

“Home's back there.” Penelope pointed back at Blythe Hall. They were skirting the grove of oaks and poplars on the west lawn, heading at an angle toward the river. The rain had stopped, but water dropped in large blips off the branches and splashed on the girls, and from the approaching growl of thunder, Penelope thought it was likely that the heavens were going to open again, and soon.

“C'est chez toi—“

“It's your house, too.”

“—Avec ton père et ta nursery et ta bonne d'enfant—“

“She's not my nursemaid, she just came this week.”

“—Et tes livres et ton père . . .”
Kiki's voice had thickened.

“You can read the books and your papa is at Blythe Hall, too.” Penelope wasn't sure, but she thought Kiki's arm came up to swipe at her nose. “Didn't you bring a handkerchief?”

“
Non
! I am not so English and
distinguée
as you. Everyone makes sure I know this.”

Penelope was really tired of hearing only French from Kiki. “I thought everyone made sure I knew I wasn't as pretty as you.”

“Tu n'es pas aussi jolie que moi!”

“I am too as pretty!” Penelope shoved Kiki right in the middle of the back.

Kiki stumbled forward, then turned like the savage she was and shoved back. She was shorter and more slender than Penelope, but she packed a good wallop
and Penelope found herself flailing backward. She would have gone down, but she smacked into a tree trunk.

“Crétin!”

“Noodle!” All the disgruntlements of the past year rose in Penelope, and she would have tackled Kiki and knocked her to the ground and made her go back to the house where they belonged and they'd be safe.

But Kiki gave up the fight, turned and ran. Ran like the wind, sobbing loudly all the way.

Penelope hesitated. She didn't know how Kiki had sneaked past the poor man who guarded the nursery room door, but Penelope had had to pretend to be playing hide-and-seek, and the man had trusted her. She ought to go back and tell Papa, but by then Kiki would be gone. And telling seemed sneaky. Besides, Kiki was acting oddly, crying so her nose ran and she looked ugly, then fleeing instead of fighting. The decision wasn't easy, but Penelope raced after her cousin.

The rain started falling again, falling faster and harder than before. Lightning flashed and thunder growled, and Penelope kept wiping the water out of her eyes and hoping Kiki tripped and landed flat on her face so she'd give up.

Kiki never did what Penelope hoped. She headed for the river, and Penelope ran as fast as she could until she caught her. Grabbing her by the arm, Penelope shouted, “Let's go up there.” She pointed at the castle ruins set up on the wooded hill.

For the first time on this wretched morning, Kiki acted like Kiki. Her eyes lit up as lightning jagged behind the castle ruins, giving it a desolate, melodramatic appearance.
“Oui.”
She put the back of her hand on her
forehead and said in French, “I can die there in peace.”

“I just want to get out of the storm.”

“You have no
théâtre
in your soul.”

“I know a farce when I see one.”

Kiki jerked herself free and stalked up the hill. Stalked until the lightning struck again, so close the thunder clapped around their ears. Then she screamed and ran up the path.

Penelope beat her to the castle. Penelope had longer legs, and Penelope had never liked thunder.

The two girls crowded into a cramped cave formed by a big vertical rock, a stone wall, and the wooden roof Mr. Milford had built so the honeysuckle would have somewhere to grow. On a normal summer day, Penelope would never have entered for fear of the bees which buzzed around the scented yellow blossoms, but today all the bees showed more sense than the girls—they stayed home.

Penelope shuddered with cold as she crouched beside Kiki, not touching her, just peering out at the lightning that struck all around them like fingers of an angry god—a thought which made Penelope shift her feet guiltily. “Do you think God is angry at us?”

Kiki stared at Penelope as if she'd lost her mind. “
Non, le bon Dieu nous aime
.”

“But we've been bad.”

“Je ne suis pas méchante. Je vais chez moi. Toi, tu es méchante.”

“I am not bad!
You
are. And you can't go home. Don't you understand, you silly goose? There's no one for you anywhere but here.”

Kiki's face worked, and her voice quavered as she answered in French, “No one is here. I miss
ma mère
.
Miss Milford likes you better. Your
père
loves you and reads to you.
Mon père
doesn't love me. No one likes me here.” She ended in a cry that sounded like that of a starving baby cat.

“Do you know how stupid you are?” Penelope wanted to slap Kiki. “I'm here and I'm wet and I'm cold and I'm scared, just so you won't be alone. Of course I like you. You're stupid.”

Kiki didn't say anything for a very long moment. Then,
“Vraiment?”

“Yes, you're really stupid.”

“Really you like me?” Kiki asked in French.

“When you're not stupid.”

“Oh, Penelope!” Kiki threw herself at Penelope so hard she knocked Penelope onto her bottom.
“Je t'aime bien aussi. Et tu es stupide.”

“I must be.” Penelope accepted Kiki's embrace, then cuddled into it. Kiki wore a wool cape that had expelled some of the rain, and here she was almost warm.

Kiki draped the corner of the cloak over Penelope and in French, asked, “Why did you run away wearing no coat?”

“I was afraid I would lose you.”

“We are sisters, now,
oui
? We love each other, we share everything, we—”

Penelope slapped her hand across Kiki's mouth.

Kiki pushed it away. “You can't take it back!”

“Sh.” Penelope strained to hear through the rain. The whistle of the wind faded again, and again she heard a man's shout.

“Our papas!
Ils doivent nous sauver.”
Kiki began to crawl out of the cave.

Penelope grabbed her ankle. “Stop. Maybe it's not
our papas.” She spoke softly. “Papa said I must always make sure it is him.”

Something of Penelope's alarm must have captured Kiki's attention, for as rapidly as she'd gone forward, she crawled backward.
“Pourquoi?”

“Because there are bad men who would like to take me—and you—away.” Had someone seen them leave the house? And if they had, why hadn't they been rescued sooner? Everything about this troubled Penelope, and Papa had said to trust her instincts.

“Les vilains!”
Kiki skittered toward the small opening at the back of the cave.
“Qu'est-ce que nous faisons?”

“He's coming closer.” Penelope strained to recognize the voice, but she didn't. What was a stranger doing poking around the grounds, especially up here? “We'll go back through that hole. As soon as you get out, crawl around and run for home. I'll follow.” The voice moved closer yet. Too close. In a whisper, she commanded, “Hurry. Stay low. If I can't get out, tell Papa right away.”

“Penelope!” Kiki's eyes grew big and scared.

But not as scared as Penelope. It took all her courage to shove Kiki toward the hole. “I'm behind you.” She made sure Kiki had squeezed through, then she turned and faced out, taking care to hide the outlines of the opening.

“Miss Penelope,” the voice called. He was friendly. Too friendly. “I know you're around here. Your father sent me.”

Penelope didn't recognize his voice.

“I'm Uncle Bumly,” he called. “Just tell me where you are, and I'll save you from the storm.”

Uncle Bumly? She didn't know any Bumly, and he
certainly wasn't an uncle. Her heart began to beat so hard she could scarcely breathe, and she started to ease back as quietly as she could.

Then— “There you are, sweetheart,” Bumly shouted. “I'll get you!”

Bumly had spotted Kiki. Penelope knew she couldn't let him get Kiki. So she screamed like a silly girl, screamed until a long arm reached into the cave and dragged her out. Screamed when Bumly said, “This is the right one.”

Screamed until he hit her across the face and told her to shut up.

Then she did as her Papa had instructed, and waited for him to rescue her.

The rain fell. The old bloodhound sniffed and ran. Throckmorton held one leash on the dog, and one—barely—on his temper. The children had disappeared. The timing was suspicious.

Someone lured the girls away. Whoever he was, he would pay.

Kinman organized the men to search the grounds. The servants poked into the house's every nook and cranny.

Throckmorton ran behind the dog, rain soaking his greatcoat and mud caking his boots. He ran and prayed. Prayed the rain wouldn't wash away the girls' scent. Not yet. Not yet.

Celeste had wanted to accompany him, but he had ordered she remain behind to see if she could find any trace of the girls. In this crisis he didn't want to be responsible for Celeste's safety, also.

He and the dog turned toward the river, then veered
back, toward the hill in the middle of the estate. Toward that silly castle ruin. Straining his eyes, he watched the woods and brush for movement. Nothing. He couldn't see anything through this rain.

Penelope knew he always set a man to watch over the children; he had explained the reason as best he could without frightening her. Yet Kiki had gone, and Penelope had lied to escape.

Fury and fear burned in Throckmorton. Yes, someone had lured the girls away.

The dog took the path toward the top. The wet gravel slipped beneath Throckmorton's feet. The dog strained at the leash, woofed once—and from off the path, from the slop above, a small missile almost knocked him down.

He grabbed for the child.

Kiki. He recognized her by her size, by her frantic grip . . . by her French.

“Je vous en prie. Vous devez venir avec moi tout de suite. Il l'a kidnappè! Il tient Penelope!”

Never had his linguistic inabilities frustrated him so much. He held Kiki's shoulders, shook her. “What? What?”

“Un homme! En haut. En haut, de la cave avec la chèvrefeuille!”
She was pointing up, but he still didn't understand, and with a huff of frustration, she shouted in English, “A man captured Penelope! Up by the honeysuckle cave. Save her!”

“Yes.” Kiki had given in. She'd spoken English.

He'd feel triumph later. Now he hugged her hard. Giving her a push down the hill, he commanded, “Go back to the house. Tell the men to come with guns. Hurry!”

“You
hurry,” she retorted, and sprang like a young goat down the hill.

Just as he'd feared. A man, a stranger, held Penelope. Threatened Penelope.

Whoever he was, Throckmorton would kill him. Interrogate him if he could, but mostly kill him.