Miss Antiqua's Adventure (3 page)

At the magic mention of Calais, all thought of informing Monsieur soundly that she would rather walk than accept such an offer evaporated. To be taken as far as Calais! Nothing could be more perfect. If the security of England, not to mention the whole of Europe, rested upon her having to masquerade briefly as a member of the muslin set, then Antiqua Greybill was prepared to make the sacrifice.

“
Merci, Monsieur
. Calais is precisely where I wish to go. It will take me but a moment to collect my things.” She turned toward the stair.

The gentleman’s hand remained outstretched. “Come. My man will see to your things.”

“But—but I need my cloak—”

“You shall have mine,
ma chérie
.” So saying, he removed his coat and threw it over her shoulders, ignoring the reproachful glare of his servant as he wrapped her in its heavy warmth.

Antiqua had no choice. To demur further could only annoy him and if he chose not to take her with him, she had no idea what she could do. The way to Paris had been paid by her Tante Yvonne and Antiqua knew the meager sum reposing in her reticule would not get her beyond the first post-stop. She therefore surrendered her hand into Monsieur’s keeping.

His touch, like his manner, was cool. She could not understand the surge of warmth which coursed through her. She stared at her hand within his, as if it might explain her odd reaction.

Outside the brisk night air rushed at her and the bright full moon cast spectral shadows in unearthly array. Antiqua pushed her hair back out of her eyes with her free hand as she hurried to keep pace with her—what, benefactor or captor? Not for the first time, she wondered if she were not actually still lying upon her poster bed and this was some hideous dream from which she could not awaken.

She surreptitiously examined the profile just above her head. It was an aristocratic profile, and like his clothes, his stance, his very air, it proclaimed wealth and breeding and the arrogance that came with same. Though his clasp was light, a virile strength lay beneath his fingertips and she unreasonably wished she could let this man go on to Calais without her.

Two large traveling carriages stood waiting, along with what seemed to her to be a small army of servants. If any of these were surprised that Monsieur had appeared with a young lady, they were too well-trained to show it. Nonetheless, Antiqua felt grateful for the loan of Monsieur’s coat, and sank her head as deeply into the folds of the capes as possible as she was guided toward the first of the luxurious coaches. She hoped the valet would not be long in following with Lucy, for she was decidedly uncomfortable alone with the aloof, yet somehow arousing, gentleman. He handed her up into the carriage, then climbed in lithely behind her. The door closed and instantly the vehicle lurched forward, causing his cloak to slip from her shoulders.

“
Monsieur
!” Antiqua cried in alarm. “We cannot leave! My—my clothes—my maid—”

“You must learn, my dear, to have more faith in Fawkes,” he said as he calmly repossessed himself of her hand in a grip hard as iron, but much more pleasant. “He shall attend to it, I assure you.”

He had spoken in English even more impeccable than his perfect French. Antiqua turned her wide brown eyes directly upon him. “But you’re not French” she accused.

“Ah . . . no,” he admitted. “I am English. I did not think I could bear your—forgive me, dear heart—your wretched attempts at French any longer.”

“I have been told, sir, that my French is very creditable,” she said coldly.

“Whoever told you so, sweeting, was being kind.
Monsieur
le tuteur
, perhaps?”

The shadows hid his expression, but the husky depth of this last remark brought Antiqua to a renewed realization of the danger of her situation. Her stomach began to churn with a sinking dread. She tried to regain her hand.

She was unsuccessful. With a mocking smile, he brought her unwilling hand to his lips. He lightly stroked her fingertips, sending curious tingles up her arm, then turned her hand and touched the center of her palm with his lips.

Her body quivered. The intimacy was oddly thrilling. Fighting this, she focused her mind on business. “Do you intend to travel on to England, sir?”

“You are shivering, my little one. I think perhaps you need warming.” He moved closer.

Her dress rustled furtively as she tried to scoot away from him without any overt fleeing gestures. “But—but England? Are you going there?”

“And if I am?” he asked in a low voice that seemed to resonate deep inside her.

Her heart thudded erratically as she watched his well-toned muscles ripple beneath the tight pantaloons when he moved closer still. “C-could I—I go with you?”

“Ah . . . now that would, of course, depend.”

“On w-what?”

“On tonight, velvet-eyes.” He dropped another kiss upon her palm before finally releasing her hand.

Her sigh of relief was cut short. The backs of his fingers brushed her cheek as he collected a strand of her unruly chestnut hair. Running the lock through his fingers, he lowered his own dark head to her exposed neck, his mouth seeking the gentle pulse line along the side of her throat. Antiqua jumped slightly away from him. Her hair fell from his fingers as his hand instantly encircled the column of her neck.

“Why so skittish,
chérie
?”

The imperious demand behind his lazy words was not lost upon Antiqua. She attempted to swallow her panic and, frantically calculating the cost of the trip from Calais to Dover, managed a shaky smile. His eyes darkened as they grazed the fullness of her lips and his handsome face exhibited a raw, primeval masculinity that robbed her of breath. It was quite obvious Monsieur was used to having his way with women and even more so that he meant to have his way with her.

Allowing none of her fear to show, she managed a light titter. “I cannot continue to call you
Monsieur
. Pray, sir, tell me who you are.”

“I am Vincent.”

It was said with the assurance of a man who expects to be known to all and sundry. Nervously running her tongue over her lips, she said stiffly, “You may call me . . . Lucy.”

“Well, Lucy,
mon ange
, let me instruct you as I am certain
Monsieur le tuteur
could not.”

Before she could realize what he was at, Vincent had circled her slender waist with strong arms, pressing her body to his in an uncompromising embrace. As the muscles in his arms tightened about her, she caught the strong scent of wine in the warm breath which passed over her cheek. Through the carriage window she saw the moonlight whirl over his unkempt hair as his lips bore down on hers.

Antiqua had never been kissed with anything other than familial affection. The lips now devouring hers—demanding from them, from her—leaving her breathless and weighting her eyelids, were definitely not those of a dutiful kinsman. A dangerous excitement stirred within her, throwing her heart into a flutter while her own lips opened in involuntary response to this delightful new sensation.

She felt a thrill of surprise when his tongue slipped inside her, bringing all the heat and sleekness of his desire. Reveling in the warmth of his strong body against hers, she wrapped her arms about his shoulders and answered his kiss with a daring unlike anything she had ever before exhibited. He sighed into her, giving a short shudder as he dragged his lips away. His tongue teasing her soft skin, he murmured something unintelligible in French at the edge of her mouth.

Her limited knowledge of the language did not extend to such intimacies, but it made no matter. Even if he had shouted in English, syllable-by-syllable, she would not have understood. Her whole being was concentrated on the leaping of her nerve-endings wherever he was touching her.

And he was touching her everywhere, running practiced hands over her body in a way that caused her toes to curl. One long finger traced the line of her neck to the point where the first pearl button closed her gown over the slope of her figure. A fiery heat built within her, surging into her middle and down, lower, as his hand lingered, lightly playing with the flesh just above her rapidly rising and falling breasts. Warnings sounded in her mind. She knew she must stop this madness before it was too late.

“P-please, sir,” she begged on a moan.

“Patience, little one,” he responded, his voice thickened. “The reward is that much greater for the delay.”

The heat of his warm, wet mouth seared her skin as his lips whispered along the path of his finger down the length of her neck to her readily displayed charms. His hand cupped her breast and through the thin muslin, she felt his strong fingers pressing into her flesh. Above the frantic pounding of her heart, she heard a purely masculine groan and fear suddenly overwhelmed all her other emotions. Her hands flew to his chest and she struggled wildly to free herself from his exciting embrace.

“What the devil!” he exclaimed. Catching hold of her wrists, he leaned slightly away to stare at her with a scowl which frightened her as much as his kisses had done. “What’s come over you?”
“Oh, sir—I am not—I am not well,” she replied tremulously. Indeed, in the moonlight streaming into the carriage, she looked uncommonly pale. “I suffer from—from traveling sickness.”

“Oh, my God,” he said in disgust, flinging her roughly away.

Antiqua shrank into the corner, thankful for the darkness there which covered the relief spreading through her. Terror again sprang up as he tilted toward her, but he merely reached over her to let the square window of the coach door the rest of the way down.

“If you must be ill,” he said without a hint of sympathy, “please have the goodness to aim well.”

With that, Vincent removed himself to the opposite cushion, where he stretched himself across the length of the velvet seat.

“I am sorry, sir. I—I shall be better once we are stopped,” Antiqua replied softly.

She received no reply and reflected ruefully that she would obviously have to make her own way to Dover. Drawing his cloak about her shoulders again, she gave herself over to pondering the situation she had rushed headlong into. Not a moment was wasted in useless regret. She was enough of her father’s daughter to enjoy a high-spirited adventure and had long ago accepted her impulsiveness as an inescapable Greybill trait. Had not her own father run off with her French mother the very day they met? The only difference, she thought, between her father’s brand of impulsiveness and her own was that he always had the convenient excuse of having been foxed. Viewing her current circumstances, Antiqua thought perhaps she, too, had been somewhat drunk. Drunk with the desire to return home. And Mr. Allen’s packet had provided her with the perfect excuse to do what she wanted without guilt.

For one monstrous moment, she considered the possibility that Lucy would not have brought the packet. But as silly as she was, even Lucy was capable enough to have slipped the leather bundle into her portmanteaux. Her other fear, that of the assassins who killed Allen, was shelved easily enough. How could anyone know he had given the packet to her? She need only worry about stretching her limited funds all the way to London and once there, discovering Mr. Allen’s brother. Her mood lightened. She would see her adventure out to its conclusion.

At length, Antiqua relaxed enough to doze off, though she woke each time the carriage stopped to change horses. Vincent did not stir once, for which she could only be most grateful. The coming of dawn spilled light into the coach, giving her an opportunity to examine him more closely. Without his air of disdainful composure, he appeared not that much older than herself and much less menacing than he had during the night. She thought it a great pity that one so young and handsome should already be such a libertine, so experienced in the ways of making a woman tremble with incomprehensible yearnings.

Removing her gaze to the window, she firmly set aside all such thoughts and once again fell into a light sleep.

* * * *

When Antiqua next awoke, they were no longer moving and the carriage was surrounded by the hustle and bustle of a seaport full of barking vendors, swaggering sailors and parading doxies.

There was a tapping on the chaise door and she quickly drew herself into the depths of Vincent’s coat. She lay very still as the door was pulled open and a toneless voice informed them that they had arrived in Calais. Peeping through the cover of the coat, she saw Vincent stretch, then rise and descend from the coach without so much as casting a glance her way. Unreasonably, Antiqua was incensed by this treatment. What Mr. Vincent needed, she promptly decided, was a severe set-down. An expressionless footman broke through her hostile reflection to beg
mademoiselle
to follow him.

She quivered slightly as she stepped from the coach as the air stunk of dead fish and sweating men loading and unloading the ships bobbing on filthy the water. To her great relief, Antiqua was immediately led to a private chamber on the upper floor of what seemed to be a respectable inn. Her gaze swept the room, which was of generous proportions and far finer than the cramped chamber she had bespoken in Amiens.

Her spirits, which had risen considerably, now fell again when she saw that the door to her right had no lock. Powers of perception far weaker than hers would have realized to whose room that door must lead. She repressed with difficulty the desire to run from the room at once.

Being of an optimistic nature, however, she buoyed herself by reasoning that the problem of the door was no problem unless her fellow traveler tried to come through it. She decided she would worry about that if and when the time came. Removing Vincent’s coat and laying it over the bright yellow seat of an oval-backed armchair, she went to a mahogany commode standing in one corner and washed her face in the porcelain ewer. Feeling much refreshed, she attempted to brush through her tangled hair with her fingers, then did what she could to revive the folds of her crushed muslin gown. She buttoned both sleeves and neck. Her fingers grazed her skin and a ghost of a shiver coursed through her.
His
fingers had been so cool, yet his touch had burned . . .