Kate Moore (9 page)

“You expect me to be in perfect charity with you, I suppose,” she said, adjusting her shawl, refusing to look at him.

“We did give a lonely man a great deal of pleasure with our . . . fiction,” he replied.

“But he told us a truth he might have easily concealed, and we did not repay him in kind.” It was less a true pang of conscience that prompted her to contradict him than a sense that she must resist him in any way she could.

“Yet there was a great deal of truth in our fiction, was there not?” he asked.

At that she did look at him. “What do you mean?” she asked. His question made her distinctly uncomfortable.

“I mean,” he said, coming to stand directly in front of her so that it required some courage not to back away, “our interest in our host was genuine, our pleasure in the evening unfeigned. How often could you say that in London, Meg?”

She dropped her gaze from his heated one. Perhaps it was more dangerous to disagree with him than to agree. To cool their exchange she asked, “Do you think the
senhor
will keep his girls with him after all?”

“Yes,” answered her thief, speaking in a milder tone and stepping back a little, as if he, too, wished to distance himself from her.

“But to do so means the
senhor
must often be lonely.”

“He will be less so as they grow, and you cannot doubt his affection for them.”

“No, but to keep his daughters must also mean that his son will be lost to him.”

This time it was Drew who turned away. After a pause he said in a level voice, “Fathers have been known to cast off their sons.” He continued, still without looking at her, “Shall we go up to bed then, Meg?” He offered his arm, and she took it uncertainly.

He meant to end all talk between them, and she guessed it was because she had touched a subject too near his own experience.

He led her to the foot of the stairs and stopped. “You go on ahead; I will follow shortly.”

She nodded, a little disappointed by his words, but she did as he bid her, mounting the stairs slowly, conscious of his gaze upon her as she went.

As she reached the top of the stairs, Margaret wondered that the hall should be so dim. Surely it was not so late that the candles had burned down. The opening of a door at the far end of the hall made her turn. It was their own door, from which a shadow seemed to slip and glide along the wall. She stood perfectly still, but the fleeting figure disappearing into the darkness never looked back.

8

M
ARGARET TOOK A
few cautious steps forward, her imagination darting ahead, examining the room itself and pursuing the shadowy figure. The room, she realized, could be examined at leisure, but the figure must be followed at once, if at all. It would not be one of the
senhor’s
servants; they could have no motive for furtiveness. From the size and quickness of the figure she concluded it must be Jacob. What had he sought in their room—Croisset’s purse? Or perhaps the papers? It had not occurred to her before, but if the brothers became impatient to meet the Viper, it was likely that they would try to steal the papers for themselves. Her racing thoughts impelled her feet forward so that she reached their door almost before she realized she was moving.

Once more she had cause to chide herself for her reluctance to act against Drew. If the papers were in the brother’s hands, she would never prevent them from reaching the French. She had to know if Jacob had succeeded in finding them where she had so far failed.

Ahead of her the figure vanished in the gloom though no other door beyond theirs had opened. She glanced back but did not see Drew. For the first time since her abduction she was virtually unguarded. She hurried forward. When she reached the end of the hall, she understood the mysterious disappearance of the man, for she found herself at the top of a long stair with one turning. Dimly lit but serviceable, it led, she suspected, to the kitchens and storerooms below. She lifted her skirts with one hand and ran lightly down, sliding her other hand along the wall, her slippers and skirts rustling more faintly than pages turning in a book. Thus she caught the sound of a door opening and closing below her. At the landing she paused to look over the banister into the hall below. It was empty as she had expected, and there were several doors her quarry might have entered.

She descended a dozen more steps. The doors along the wall opposite the staircase were identical, dark and forbidding, but as she studied them, she saw that light came faintly from under only the second door. She considered going to the door itself, but a passing image of the
senhor’s
daughters caught at their eavesdropping stopped her. She would have even less chance of escape. She chose to remain on the stairs, concealed from the door opposite by the banister. If she were lucky, the brothers would be together and they would quarrel. She knew she could hear Esau’s voice from where she sat. If she were unlucky, Esau was somewhere else and would see her as he came to meet his brother. It would be impossible to escape him by running up the stairs.

These thoughts had occupied her for no more than a minute when she heard Esau’s first loud exclamation. Muffled as the words were, she recognized the peculiar dialect that all those in the French employ seemed to use. Again he spoke, his voice louder still. This time she heard the word “
Ingleses
” and the words for “Viper” and “payment.” She forced herself to concentrate. The next time he spoke, she caught every word.

“No. We can’t kill him. Need him to signal the Viper.”

She willed her heart not to pound so she would miss nothing, but the next words made little sense. Then Esau fairly burst with wrath.

“No. We let Viper kill him.”

Dear Lord, did Drew know the danger they courted? No answer followed, and Margaret knew it was time for her to leave before she could be caught. She stood on shaking legs and felt herself seized from behind with a suddenness that momentarily deprived her of breath and pulse.

“Meg, my girl,” came Drew’s whisper at her ear, “you do have a way of putting yourself in danger.” He turned her toward him, releasing her mouth, and she felt herself breathe again. “Come upstairs, love, and tell me about your adventure.” The words were mild but seemed to come from between clenched teeth.

The room, when they entered it, appeared undisturbed. She attempted to pull away from him, but he did not release her. Instead he turned her to him and held her pressed against him as he had once before.

“How did you know where to find me?” she asked, drawing back as much as she could in his hold.

“You were not here; you had not come down the main stair; there was but one other possibility. I considered that you might be enterprising enough to climb out the window, but I did not think you would leave on such a night without your cloak. Why did you venture so near our untrustworthy guides?”

“I saw Jacob leave our room. At least I suspected it was Jacob, and I thought he might have taken the earl’s papers.”

“Because?”

“Because if they must reach the French soon, then he must be tempted to take them himself.” Margaret had the satisfaction of making Drew look away.

“Suppose you had been discovered in your eavesdropping,” he suggested, looking back at her.

“I meant to scream and fight. This is Senhor Fregata’s house after all, and there must be servants about.”

“As there were in the Earl of Haddon’s house?”

This question caused her to look away. Her own part in her abduction, now that she understood herself, embarrassed her more than ever.

“I did not fight then, I know, but I would now,” she assured him, daring to meet his gaze.

“Why didn’t you fight me?” he asked in a different voice. It was not a question she wished to answer. She drew a deep breath.

“I . . . I preferred the unknown to the known.” It was not precisely a lie.

“Were you so unhappy in London, Meg?”

“Yes, I was,” she said.

“Why? Tell me,” he said.

“Now? Like this?” she asked. The quality of his hold had changed in some indefinable way so that she knew he was no longer angry.

“This is to teach you,” he said, giving her a slight shake. “You think you can defend yourself against a man. You blame yourself for your own abduction. You have not the least notion. Try to break my hold.” He released her hands but held her waist.

To meet his challenge, to free herself, she would have to touch him, but her hands felt too heavy to lift. He was grinning at her, clearly aware of her dilemma. She thought of the proper ladylike responses to such liberties as he was taking—kicking a gentleman’s shins, slapping his face. But she felt oddly warm and heavy, as if she might melt. His hands seemed to support her as much as constrain her. Then she recalled his advice to her once before. He was a man who could be stopped with a word.

“Why did you take me from Humphrey’s cottage that night?” she asked, looking boldly into his eyes.

As she expected, her direct request for the truth caused him to loosen his hold. She slipped free at once and stepped back. Even as he allowed her to distance herself from him, she saw he was considering his answer. He would not speak the truth impulsively as she always did.

“I took you,” he said, “because I had to know the outcome of my meeting with Croisset before I allowed you to return and tell your tale. Humphrey was not expecting you, and had I left you bound and gagged in his cottage, I have no doubt his first act would have been to release you and yours to report to some authority.”

So there
had
been an improvised element to his meeting with Croisset. Encouraged by this grain of truth, she pressed him for more. “Croisset would have killed you if he had seen through your disguise, but when he did not, you thought of taking his place as messenger yourself?”

He laughed. It was the only sign he gave that she had disconcerted him at all. “Meg, you are too clever by half, and I see I was wise not to leave you to report after me. Did you learn something tonight?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, “that one of our brothers would willingly kill you and that the other would prefer to let the Viper do it.” She reported exactly what she had overheard.

“Poor Meg, it is not what you are used to, but you are hardly frightened, are you?” he asked. He seemed to study her.

“Frightened enough,” she replied. She did not wish to examine her fears too closely. “Do you still consider that it is a game we are playing, knowing that your companions mean to murder you?”

“They will not try tonight, however, Meg,” he said. As he spoke he moved purposefully toward the door. “Until he is sure of the location of the papers, Jacob will not kill me.”

“He did not find them tonight, but are you so certain of tomorrow?” she asked. She was surprised at the sharp tone of her own voice and the sharp regret that he was again cutting off their talk.

“Hardly,” he said, “but I do mean to carry on our journey. If we can outwit the clever Jacob for three days more, Holy Week will begin. Then every village will have its
romaria
, its festival. The Viper may move freely among the hundreds of pilgrims, and we may expect to meet him.” The bland words had an unexpected finality to them.

“You mean to find him even though he intends to kill us?” She wanted to argue with him, to anger him again.

But his reply was mild. “I do. After all, the Viper has the gold.” Once again he reminded her of his greedy purpose. He put his hand to the doorknob. “I will send a maid to you. Good night, Meg.” Then he was gone.

***

When he returned, Margaret lay still in the big bed, feigning sleep, brilliant but unspoken arguments rushing through her mind. Tom True had always listened to Prudence.

She heard Drew ready himself for sleep just as he had every evening, removing his coat and boots and cravat, emptying his pockets, winding his watch. His ritual complete, he stood over her. She kept perfectly still until she heard him laugh.

“A sleeper breathes, Meg,” he said, stroking her cheek lightly with his fingertips. At his touch, she opened her eyes and glared at him.

“You are still angry, I take it,” he said.

He read her feelings too well. She nodded.

“Good night, then.” He extinguished the last of candles, and she heard him stretch out on the floor in the darkness.

An interval passed in which neither the faint hiss and snap of the dying fire, nor the last drops of rain in the gutters and drainpipes relieved the quiet of the room. Margaret tried to hold onto her anger, but the feeling was unfamiliar and uncomfortable. She had chosen to follow him, to learn at last what became of the earl’s papers. Though she knew him to be a thief and a traitor, she could not help but wish that he would act with honor and prudence, or forget that only she could remind him of those principles.

Her jaw ached from clenching it, and her neck and shoulders quivered. She could not think clearly, and she had never in her life tried to sleep in such a mood. From time to time she had quarreled with her friend Anne, but the mild stirrings of temper that accompanied such disagreements had always dissolved in laughter. She knew Drew slept no more than she did.

Suddenly the softness of the pillow under her head and the warmth of the thick counterpane over her made her feel petty and mean. She sat up, unsure of what she meant to do, but sure that she must make peace with him.

“Will you light a candle?” she asked. There was no answer, but she heard him rise and saw his shadowy movements against the fire’s faint redness. In a minute he had lighted a candle on the small table beside the bed. In its glow his now-familiar features appeared sobered. No teasing sparkle lit his eyes. He turned and stood silently regarding her.

“There is an extra blanket at the foot of the bed,” she said. “Will you take it?”

“Thank you, Meg,” he replied.

She saw in his eyes that she had surprised him. He didn’t move.

“And, here,” she said, thrusting a pillow at him, “take this.”

His hand came up to accept her offering. “Anything else, Meg?” he asked quietly.

“What else could I give you?” she asked.

He smiled. She knew she had given him an opportunity to embarrass her. But there was no teasing in his voice when he spoke.

“A kiss,” he said.

Margaret looked for some playful light in the blue eyes. There was none. He had dropped all fictions between them, all lies and disguises, and she was not safe alone with him. Until this moment she had had to resist only his treason, not his person. His will had compelled them to share many rooms, but kept them from sharing any bed. Now with a word he had evoked her will.

The denial which should have come so readily to her lips, prompted by reason and conscience and prudence, would not come. She should say
No
, and she wanted to say
Yes
. Her throat was tight with the promise of tears. She shook her head.

After that it was impossible for her to look at him any longer. She heard him turn away, and looked up only as he put out the candle. In the sudden darkness he said, “Don’t offer, Meg. You will find me only too ready to take everything.”