Midnight Mistress (5 page)

Her words ended in a yelp as Connor tromped on her foot.

“Heavens, look what I’ve done,” the captain said, though to Juliana’s ears his distress sounded as false as his name. “Lord Morrow, could you fetch a doctor? I fear I might have injured this poor lady.”

The poor lady feared it as well, but she wasn’t about to let Connor get the upper hand. Balanced on one foot and biting
her lip against the pain, she growled, “Reed, you slimy son of a—”

“And delirious, too,” Connor interrupted. “She believes I am someone else. Quick, Morrow. Fetch the doctor!”

The earl scuttled off to find help. Juliana turned to the rest of the crowd, determined to tell
someone
who this man really was, but Connor scooped her up in his arms and carried her behind the curtain. He called over his shoulder to the people who hovered nearby, saying the lady needed some breathing room. Alarmed, Juliana saw the crowd back away before the heavy curtain fell behind them and blocked her view.

Beyond the curtain was a narrow, deserted hallway that led to the rear of the house. Connor carried Juliana to the servant’s stairs, where he deposited her on the bottom step. “Did I hurt you?”

“ ’Tis a bit late to be asking that,” Juliana fired back, barely able to speak. She’d thought his detestable actions of four years past were beyond compare. Apparently she’d been wrong. He’d compounded his already unforgivable behavior by stomping on her foot, sweeping her up, and carrying her off like a common barmaid. Had the man no shame? She bent forward and nursed her injured foot, burning with an emotion she told herself was simple fury. “I would not be surprised if you have crippled me for life.”

Connor’s hard mouth ticked up in relief. He’d wounded her pride, but nothing more. “No doubt,” he agreed as he sat on the step just below her. He drew up a knee and leaned back against the wall, taking an unaccountable pleasure in watching her fuss over her abused foot. “It is your own fault. You should have heeded my warning glance.”

“Captain
Gabriel’s
warning glance,” she corrected. “Where did you come upon such a ridiculous name?”

“It suits my purpose as well as any. Here, you are only making your foot worse by doing that. Let me.”

Before she could protest, he took her foot, stripped off her flimsy slipper, pushed her skirt up to a scandalous height and
started to massage the injury. Juliana wanted to jerk away, but she couldn’t deny that his ministrations made her feel better. Much better. His strong, gentle hands seemed to magically draw the pain from her body. Anger and propriety told her to pull away, but her practical core reminded her that if she did so, she would be the one in pain, not Connor. With great reluctance she allowed him to minister to her ankle. At least, she told herself it was with great reluctance. “I am allowing this only because I fear permanent injury.”

“Of course,” he said as a hint of his old humor crept back into his voice. “You were not so angry the first time I stepped on your foot. Do you remember?”

How could she forget? She had been ten and Connor fifteen when her father had put into the Indian port of Bombay for repairs on their ship. Bored by the stuffy English children she’d been sent to play with, she’d stolen away to explore the back streets on her own. Wide-eyed, she’d wound through the narrow alleys, piling wonder on wonder as she took in the festive sights and rich, mysterious smells of the exotic Hindu city. Somewhere in the midst of the adventure she’d come nose-to-nose with a hissing cobra. She’d stood transfixed in horror as the creature rose up and unfurled its killing hood.

Then, out of nowhere, Connor appeared. He put himself in front of her, inadvertently stepping on her foot while driving the snake into the shadows. Afterward it did not matter to Juliana that her toe was black and blue for a week, or that the cobra turned out to be a harmless family pet, or that her father had to bribe the owner to keep Connor from being handed over to the authorities for reckless mischief. All that mattered to her was that Connor had again risked his life to save hers.

She shut her eyes, fighting a stab of pain that had nothing to do with her injured foot. “That was a long time ago, and it was entirely different from your
cowardly
action tonight. Be assured that I still mean to tell everyone who you really are.”

“Indeed,” Connor commented, looking far too calm for
Juliana’s liking. “And exactly what will you tell them? That their guest of honor, one of England’s most worshiped and triumphant heroes, is really a beggar boy who got caught with his hand in the till? Do you think Morrow or his friends will thank you for the knowledge? Do you think the highly placed officials who have spent so much time and trouble to bring me here will thank you?”

Juliana swallowed. “ ’Tis the truth.”

Connor leaned closer, his eyes narrowing. “No, my innocent, ’tis
war
, and truth is always one of the first casualties. The Admiralty wouldn’t care if I had robbed a dozen men and murdered a dozen others. I am their victor, their conquering champion, their highly publicized and carefully promoted hero of the hour. The few who remember me in Whitehall have already been cautioned to keep silent about my past. If they’d known you would be here tonight, you would have been told the same.”

“I would not have agreed,” she said firmly.

“You
will
agree. Not because it is right, but because no one wants to hear anything else. They don’t give a damn about who I was—they only care that I am winning battles in a war where others are winning too few. Right now England needs all of her heroes, Juliana. Even tin-plated ones like me.”

She wanted to tell him he was wrong. She wanted to scream it. But his winter gaze bored into her, freezing her speech, her breath, her thoughts. She looked in his eyes for a trace of warmth, for the bright humor that had once overflowed from his soul. She saw only ice and desolation. For the first time she looked at him without the memories of the past, seeing the harsh, unforgiving set of his jaw, the bitter line of his mouth, the red, livid scar that cut his cheek from his left eye to his throat. She wondered how he’d gotten that scar. She wondered if he’d killed the man who gave it to him. If he’d killed …

This man wore Connor’s face. He had Connor’s memories. Once he’d even borne Connor’s name. But the pitiless
eyes that riveted hers were the eyes of a stranger. Suddenly she was aware of the strength in the hands that held her foot, how they could snap her ankle like a bit of kindling. She was alone in a deserted hallway with a powerful, dangerous man, out of the earshot of anyone who might help her, and incapable of running away. She was at the mercy of a man who had no mercy.

“My dear, there you are!”

Commodore Jolly bounded down the hallway with Meg, Morrow, Renquist, and a man carrying a physician’s satchel. Relief poured through Juliana, until she remembered her immodest pose. Hastily she pulled back her foot and was surprised to find the slipper back in place and her skirt discreetly arranged around her ankle. She glanced at Connor, but he was already on his feet with his hands clasped behind him.

Meg reached her first. “You poor darling. Are you all right?”

“I am fine,” Juliana assured her, and twirled her foot as proof. “Captain Re … that is, Captain Gabriel was most helpful.”

Was that a flicker of gratitude she saw in his face? She couldn’t be sure, for no sooner had the words left her mouth than her view of Connor was blotted out by the solicitous Lord Renquist. “My deawr, I was so dweadfully wowwied for you.”

“So was I,” Mr. Hamilton stated emphatically as he pushed in beside Lord Renquist.

“And I,” chorused another one of her suitors.

Suddenly the narrow hallway was stuffed with people. Juliana pressed back against the stairs, struggling to find the grace to deal with both the embarrassment of attention and with the less than gentle ministrations of the physician. She tried to catch a glimpse of Connor, but he had disappeared. A few minutes later she heard someone in the crowd mention that the captain had left Morrow House entirely. The man
had gone without so much as a by-your-leave. Not that she expected one. Not that she
wanted
one.

Finally, with the commodore’s assistance, she was able to make her way through the bevy of ardent suitors and limp to the carriage. She settled against the brocade cushions, with the concerned Jolly sitting across from her and Meg’s arm clasped protectively around her shoulders, and watched as Morrow House faded into the shadows. The pain in her foot faded as well—by morning it would be quite fit to walk on.

In time, she told herself, this night would become no more than a curious memory in an otherwise sane and pleasant life, a life that did not include the disreputable Connor Reed. He would return to the sea, and she would return to her parties, picnics, and country weekends. Their worlds were as far apart as heaven and Hades. It was highly unlikely that she would ever see him again.

She clutched the carriage’s door handle, determined to take pleasure in the thought of never seeing Connor again. Just as she was determined to ignore the ache dial had suddenly twisted her heart.

He’d walked for hours. With his shoulders hunched against the night damp, he’d wandered through the dark streets like a ship without a compass, not caring where he was bound. He walked past shop windows without a look, traveled over the Thames bridges without seeing the eddying river beneath, passed the glorious facades of Mayfair and the rickety hovels of the East End with the same lack of interest. Somewhere after midnight it began to drizzle, but he hardly noticed that, either. It wasn’t until dawn’s first light that he turned his steps toward the London docks and his ship.

She should
not
have been at Morrow’s. Weeks ago he’d learned that Lord Albany was in the Caribbean. He’d expected Juliana to be with him. Or away in the country. He’d expected her to be anywhere but at a party of fops and
dandies, in the company of a simpering lord, wearing a dress that might have looked fine on some, but left far too little of her figure to the imagination—

“Hell,” he growled as he slicked back his rain-damp hair. Four years ago she’d turned her back on him, just as everyone else had. He had to remember that. Even if her skin still smelled like summer. Even if the memories they’d shared had made him smile for the first time in only God knew how long. Even if the edge of fear he’d seen in her eyes had made him feel ashamed of the man he’d become, the man he’d
had
to become in order to survive.

Protecting Juliana wasn’t his business anymore. Protecting his own skin was. He was walking a tightrope as it was, and the last thing he needed was to start worrying about a woman he hadn’t thought of in four years. Well, perhaps not in
four
years, but at least a year. Well, over a month. “Bloody hell.”

He reached the Upper Pool, the stretch of the Thames below Tower Bridge where ships had docked since Roman times. He walked across the wide docks to where his ship dipped and rolled gracefully against the pier—the sleek, shadowy lady that had become the only place he could even begin to call home. He walked up the gently swaying gangway and waved to the solitary lookout, then climbed down the narrow plank ladder that led to the captain’s quarters. Wearily, he pushed open the door to the dark cabin and headed for the wall berth, pausing only to kick off his wet boots before he fell onto the covers fully clothed. At least he could grab a couple of hours of sleep before he met with his partner. And if he was lucky it would be a dreamless sleep, where he wouldn’t have to think about sunset hair, or sea green eyes, or that long-ago time when his future had stretched out before him like a boundless, sun-swept ocean—

Connor’s thoughts froze as he heard the tiny scrape of a boot against the wooden floor-planks.
Christ!
He bolted to
his feet and leapt for the door, but it was already too late. Before he’d taken a step, his legs were swept out from under him. He toppled backward, hitting the floor with a force that knocked the air from his lungs. He landed a hard kick against some part of his assailant’s anatomy, and was rewarded by a raw curse. Connor started to launch another lack, but his attacker dropped down beside him and pressed a knife against his throat.

“One move,
mon ami
, and you are a dead man.”

Connor swallowed—a difficult thing to do with cold steel biting into his flesh. “So … you intend to kill me?”

“Absolument,”
his attacker promised. “Such an
imbécile
does not deserve to live. He does not search his quarters. He does not check to see if his door has been tampered with. He does not even fight a candle! Even for an English he is a fool.”

“Perhaps,” Connor said slowly. “Then again, perhaps I’m not so much a fool as you think.”

“Ha!” His assailant’s mustache bristled with irritation. “Brave words, English, but
I
am the one who holds the knife. Give me one reason why I should not slit your throat right no—”

The Frenchman’s words died as he felt the nose of a pistol pressed into his gut.
“Merde.”
He rolled back on his haunches and glared fiercely at Connor as he stuck his knife back in its sheath. “This time you are lucky, English.”