Lady Alexandra's Excellent Adventure: A Summersby Tale (3 page)

“You . . . but you’re a . . . a . . .”

Alexandra cocked her head to one side, only slightly amused by the man’s apparent awkwardness. “And you’re a bully.” Her voice was as cool as an autumn breeze. “I suggest you find yourself another table before I decide whether or not you’re worth troubling myself over.”

The man shot a hasty look in Ryan’s direction, but Ryan merely threw up his hands and took a step backward. “I would do as she says if I were you,” he said with a lopsided grin.

To underline her brother’s statement, Alexandra added a hint of pressure to the man’s chest and raised a challenging eyebrow. It took no more than a second for her assailant to quietly back away to the safety of his comrades. They’d undoubtedly ridicule him later, but for now, none of them were eager to draw attention to themselves. Five minutes later, they gave up on their food and left, passing Michael in the doorway.

The moment she spotted him, Alexandra immediately lowered her eyes to the table, her face once again concealed by her hood.

“Our ship’s not far from here,” Michael told them as he seated himself next to Ryan. He cast a quick glance at Alexandra, once again wondering at how withdrawn Ryan’s brother seemed. He wasn’t anything like what he might have imagined based on Sir Percy’s description. In fact, he’d been sure that Alex would have been arrogant—too big for his own boots so to speak. But the man who sat across from him appeared to be anything but. And then there was his peculiar habit of constantly wearing his hood.

Michael shrugged. Who was he to question the man’s reasoning? Perhaps he had an ugly scar that he was somehow embarrassed about, or pockmarked cheeks. He remembered the glimpse he’d caught of his eyes. Surely his face must be handsome with eyes such as those.

His thoughts were interrupted by Ryan, who’d finally managed to draw one of the waiters’ attentions. A potbellied man swaggered toward them and lazily asked them what they’d like.

“We’ll have three stouts—Barclay’s if you have them,” Ryan told him. “And then something to eat. What do you have to offer?”

The waiter scratched the back of his head while his belly bounced up and down. “I have some pan-fried fish and vegetables if that’ll do. If not, I can offer you some cheese and cured meats.”

“The fish will be fine,” Michael told him, not sure of when they’d be having their next hot meal. Whatever the case, they would need something to keep them going until they were well out to sea later on in the evening.

As it turned out, the food wasn’t even warm—in fact, it had most likely been sitting around for the last couple of hours, but the flavor wasn’t too bad, so they did their best to finish what was there, following each bit with a sip of Barclay’s.

“You’re not much of a conversationalist, are you?” Michael asked, his eyes pinned on Alex. His head was bent over his plate with his hood pulled so low that not even his nose could be seen.

Michael was surprised to see him freeze—his fork hovering between his plate and his mouth. What was wrong with him? The question hadn’t been meant as an insult. Michael turned to see Ryan’s fork move with a lazy slowness as he pushed his food about his plate, just as uncomfortable as Alex clearly was.

And then, before Michael could manage to say anything else that might alter the mood, Alex simply pushed the chair back from the table, got up, and left without uttering a word.

“I apologize,” Michael muttered after a few moments. “It wasn’t my intention to offend him.”

“You ought not worry about it,” Ryan replied. “Alex can be a bit . . . difficult at times. I’m quite sure you two will get along soon enough. You’ll see.” But even Michael could hear the trepidation underlying Ryan’s hopeful tone.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

A
lexandra leaned against the railing of James Grover’s ship while she looked out over the oily waters. She listened to the sound of the crew hoisting the sails as they slid out toward the open sea, their feet a soft pitter-patter upon the wooden surface of the deck. A couple of lights from other vessels were visible in the distance. But what fascinated her most was the night sky upon which were scattered a million stars—like specks of silver on an artist’s canvas.

So lost in thought was she, when Michael’s sudden voice coming from no more than a yard behind her, it startled her. “Summersby?” His voice was soft and cautious, as if he half expected her to turn around and lash out at him.

Alexandra caught her breath, her heart thumping so wildly she thought it might burst from her chest.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” he said with an element of sincerity to his voice that surprised her. “It’s just . . . well . . . we’ll be spending quite a bit of time together you and I, so I was rather hoping we might be able to get along.”

She remained perfectly still, as if she feared that the slightest movement would give her away. She heard him shift—could almost see the frown that surely graced his face at her lack of response.

“Listen,” he insisted. “I can understand your apprehension, but you must believe me when I tell you that your brother’s case will be treated with the utmost fairness. I’m not the sort of man to act rashly. I’ll look at all the evidence first before deciding how to proceed. If you help me, it would make my job a lot easier.”

Alexandra turned to face him with a glower.

Michael stepped backward as if she’d physically shoved him, seemingly stunned by the blatant anger that shone in her eyes.

“Help you?” she muttered, keeping her voice low and muffled beneath her scarf. “You must think that I am a complete blockhead.”

“No, of course not. After all, I barely know you,” Michael said in a voice of clear exasperation. “But if we work together, we might be able to return to England sooner rather than later.”

Less time spent in each other’s company—it is tempting
.

“Lord Trenton, I—”

Michael winced. “Ashford,” he said.

“What?” Alexandra asked, momentarily thrown by his comment.

“I’d prefer it if you’d call me Ashford,” he told her. “Lord Trenton’s too formal . . . too . . .”

“Old?” Alexandra offered, unable to resist the chance to provoke him. She regarded him with some degree of curiosity—it was impossible to discern what he might be thinking. Unfortunately, he didn’t seem to take the bait. On the contrary, he merely stood there, watching her in an annoyingly condescending fashion, until she felt herself quite silly. “Very well then . . .
Ashford
. Let me ask you this—Do you think my brother is guilty or innocent?”

“If Finch’s letter holds water . . .” His words trailed off when she narrowed her eyes.

If the man was hoping to forge a lifelong friendship, then this was certainly not the conversation that would facilitate it.

He sighed. “I have to be honest with you. The evidence thus far doesn’t look good.”

“Then we have nothing further to discuss,” she told him haughtily.

A couple of crewmen ran past them, conveying orders for the ship’s sails to be hoisted. Michael waited until they were well out of earshot before lowering his voice and saying, “Be reasonable, Summersby. Suppose your brother has indeed been supplying the French with information they can use against your own countrymen. Do you honestly believe he should go unpunished?”

“He’s innocent,” Alexandra ground out. “That is the whole point.”

“And you know this beyond any shadow of a doubt?” His voice was barely a whisper on the breeze.

Alexandra tensed her shoulders. She would
not
be distracted by his nearness. Even now, in the middle of their argument she could feel her heart rate begin to rise.

Ridiculous
.

She gave a curt nod and did her best to ignore the effect he was having on her.

“I must say your loyalty’s quite remarkable. There isn’t a trace of doubt in your words.” He paused for a moment. “Do you think Finch is lying?”

“Unlike you,” she said quietly. “I won’t speculate or make assumptions before all the facts are known. I will find William, and once I do, I’ll know the truth.”

“A bold statement, Summersby.”

Michael served her a patronizing smile that rankled her to no end. He clearly thought her naive. Whatever his opinion of her, however, he had no cause to doubt where her allegiance lay. After all, she’d made herself quite clear—she would protect her family with her life, no question about it. “And you,” Alexandra muttered. “From what I understand, you’ve never met him. You know nothing of his character. Hell, you don’t even know the color of his hair. And yet you’re so eager to accuse him—to find him guilty of a crime I can promise you he did not commit.”

“Shall I simply take your word for it?” His lips curled upward to form the beginnings of a smile.

“That would indeed save us all a great deal of trouble.”

“Hm . . . I suppose it might,” he conceded. “Tell me though, for I am curious now—Why do you presume that I have already found your brother guilty?”

She balked at that. “You just said—”

“Actually, I didn’t. You drew that conclusion entirely on your own.”

“But—” She stopped to think. Had he not told her that William surely must be guilty? He’d implied that he probably was, but he hadn’t actually said it. “I don’t trust you,” she finally said.

Michael stared back at her with a steady gaze. “Why?”

“Because of the sort of man you are,” she snapped. She was beginning to lose her patience.

Michael’s eyes narrowed into two angry slits. “Would you care to elaborate on that?” he asked, crossing his arms as if in preparation for the verbal attack that was sure to come.

“You’re a whoremonger, Lord Trenton,” she told him plainly, using the name that she knew he disliked, with slow deliberation. “The worst sort of man there is—the kind who has no respect for women whatsoever and who—”

“Stop right there,” he gruffed, effectively cutting her off. “I will not allow you to speak of my mistresses in such a degrading fashion.” Michael scowled.

“Why?” Alexandra pressed. Her tone was out right mocking. “Because of how much you
care
about them?”

“Precisely,” he told her in a clipped tone.

Few things had ever been able to shut her up, but this certainly did the trick. Alexandra’s blue eyes stared blankly back at him. She felt as if someone had just shoved a stocking in her mouth. Having two brothers, the idea that a gentleman might have a mistress was unlikely to surprise her. The fact that he might actually concern himself with their welfare did. She tried to compose herself but found it damned difficult.

Michael apparently couldn’t help but smirk. “It’s not all about sex, you know,” he finally said as if he were discussing the weather.

What could she possibly say to that?

“I . . . er . . . I see,” she murmured. Thank God she was wearing both a hooded cloak and a scarf about her face. Surely her whole body must be blushing by now. Though she’d momentarily forgotten herself in her anger, it wouldn’t do to have him discover her now. How the devil had they arrived at this subject anyway?

“I’m not entirely sure you do, Summersby.” There was a twinkle in his eyes that made her catch her breath. “For as much as I love an ample bosom and a pair of soft thighs, my mistresses also offer me a great deal in terms of companionship.”

“Really?” she asked incredulously.

He stared back at her, his dark eyes locking onto hers. “You don’t have much experience with the fairer sex, do you?”

Was she really required to answer such a question?

“Not to worry,” Michael grinned. “We’ll rectify that soon enough. No need to be embarrassed about it. You are after all only what . . . twenty years of age?”

“Twenty-two,” she told him hesitantly.

“Much too old to be a virgin,” he muttered. He seemed to study her for a moment—his eyes narrowed. “Do you by any chance prefer men?”

Yes!

She caught herself just in time.

“Of course not,” she lied.

Could the conversation possibly get more bizarre?

A look of relief came over Michael’s face. “Good. Then we’ll find a pretty little strumpet for you the minute we reach Paris.”

Alexandra groaned inwardly. Apparently, it
could
get more bizarre. If only there were a way to change the subject.

Again Michael stared at her.

What is it? Why do you keep looking at me like that?

“Is there a particular reason why you choose to hide your face?” he asked quite suddenly.

“My nose and jaw are disfigured,” she told him without thinking. And then, to add to the lie, “I was born this way.”

As if it weren’t enough that Ashford thought her a man . . . well, how else was she supposed to explain her odd scarf-wearing habit?

“I’m sorry to hear it,” he told her.

The look of sympathy in his eyes went straight to her heart.

Oh hell!

If there were one thing she didn’t care for, aside from the way he could turn her legs to jelly with no more than a glance, it was feeling guilty toward the very man that she was so determined to hate.

“You needn’t be,” she said in a tight voice. Her conscience was beginning to nag at her. This was the only way though. If Ashford discovered who she was before they reached Paris, she could bet a fair sum that he’d send her back to England one way or the other.

The silence seemed to stretch between them until Alexandra decided that it was time to put an end to their strenuous rendezvous. She was just about to bid Michael a good evening when his face suddenly brightened. “Your father and Sir Percy are quite proud of you, you know.”

Alexandra shifted against the railing of the ship. She’d come up on deck to be alone, not to engage in an endless amount of meaningless conversation with a man whom she wished might vanish to the opposite side of the planet. Perhaps then she’d be able to focus her full attention on William, rather than the way in which Ashford’s cheeks dimpled when he smiled.

Before she could predict his next move, he stepped closer, put his arm about her shoulder in a companionable fashion, and began steering her toward the stern. It was the same sort of gesture she’d seen her brothers use with their friends countless times over the years. From Michael’s perspective there should be nothing wrong with behaving in such a way. After all, as far as he knew, Alexandra was a young gentleman.

But Alexandra had no time whatsoever to prepare herself for his touch. Her knees practically buckled beneath her. But that wasn’t the worst of it. In an attempt to steady herself, she reached out and grabbed onto the nearest thing she could find, which of course happened to be Michael’s chest. She clawed at it, trying to latch on, but her hand kept slipping until he finally caught her by the elbow.

“Are you all right?” he asked. His breath was warm against her face.

“A touch of seasickness I suppose,” she murmured—yet another lie.

He chuckled. “I gather you haven’t been aboard a ship before.”

She shook her head, her hand still resting upon his chest. All she could think about at that moment was how firm his muscles seemed beneath his shirt and how fast her heart was suddenly beating. She feared it was so loud, he might actually hear it.

For heaven’s sake, pull yourself together.

She wondered if she were the only one affected by their brief entanglement and quickly snuck a look at Michael. He was standing with his legs planted firmly upon the deck, his hand still bracing her arm, and the look in his eyes was . . . disconcerting to say the least. Never in her life had anyone looked at her quite like that. She’d no idea what it meant, but she knew that she didn’t like it. It made her feel highly uneasy.

This is madness.

A thought struck her—
he knows
. Surely that had to be it, if his perplexed expression was anything to go by. She’d thought he’d be angrier when he realized the truth, but instead he simply looked confused and perhaps even a little sad. Odd at that.

She briefly wondered what might have given her away, until, quite suddenly, things took a turn for the more bizarre.

“I love women,” Michael blurted out, his eyes still firmly locked on hers.

“I never said that you didn’t,” Alexandra replied, not certain of how else to respond to such a statement.

“I’ve always loved women and always will. This . . . this . . .” He shook his head as if to rid it of something unpleasant.

“Er . . . Lord Trenton? Sorry, I mean Ashford.” His eyes seemed to clear at the sound of his name. “Are you all right?”