Shadow Dance (5 page)

He wouldn’t, of course. He could have no earthly idea where she was. After she’d disappeared from the hotel in London, he’d probably tried to track her to the nearest major port. That was the primary reason she’d chosen Hampton Regis. It was small enough to be relatively unknown, large enough for some of the more modest ships bound for the Mediterranean. If Lemur were to search for her, and undoubtedly he would, he’d concentrate his efforts in Dover and Plymouth, and not waste his time on the tiny ports dotting the British seacoast.

And, of course, he wouldn’t be looking for a boy.

He knew of her predilection for boys’ clothes—after all, he’d known her for most of her twenty-two years. But he would assume, with typical male arrogance, that she would never willingly don trousers when presented with the sumptuous dresses he’d had made for her.

She hated every one of those dresses, with their high, strangling necklines, heavy skirts, and muddy colors. She hated the tight lacing underneath, the layers of petticoats, the uncomfortable shoes. But most of all, she hated anything that came from Mark-David Lemur.

The tide was coming in, bubbling along the sand with cheerful insouciance, and Juliette leaned down to roll up
the legs of her trousers. Even icy British seawater was welcome.

She wondered if she’d made a very grave mistake in leaving the Fowl and Feathers, in coming with Philip Ramsey in the first place. Surely she would have found her way out of Pinworth’s clutches—if she’d managed to escape Lemur, she could get away from anyone. She glanced over at her employer, still rapt in his work. Ramsey might prove a bit more difficult to get away from. His silver-gray eyes were a great deal more far-seeing than Sir Neville’s protuberant orbs, or even Lemur’s colorless gaze. It would take a fair amount of thought and daring to outwit the strong, powerful man who lounged on the beach nearby.

Juliette had little doubt that she had the brains and the determination to do so. She simply had to decide her course. At her current level of employment, she’d earn enough for passage to the south of Italy by the time she was thirty. Not a happy proposition. She couldn’t sell her earbobs. For one thing, the MacGowan diamonds were well-known—if she tried to pawn them in this provincial country, she could bring her nemesis to her doorstep. Besides, she’d need that money to live on once she found a place to settle down.

No, in order to get out of the country, she would simply have to steal. The lady of the house had jewels littering her dressing table in a haphazard fashion—Juliette had already ascertained that. She could take one of the more modest pieces and hope she could trade it with some unscrupulous captain for a berth. Or she could keep her eye out for cash. If Ramsey irritated her enough, she’d take it all.

On second thought, it was just as well she’d accepted his offer. Mowbray and Bessie had been too kind to steal
from. Philip Ramsey, with his sardonic air and veiled comments, deserved whatever was coming to him.

The sun was high overhead, and doubtless a proper young serving lad would set about his duties. Dulcie had packed a mountain of food; Juliette knew that because her shoulders still ached from the weight of the basket. She wondered if she was supposed to share the meal, or wait until her lord and master was finished and then retire behind a rock to finish the leftovers. Or even wait until they made the long climb back up that twisting trail to the house at Sutter’s Head.

She glanced up to the top of the headland, and a stray shiver danced across her backbone. She could almost see them, the wreckers of old, with their false promise of safety, luring ship after ship to a rocky doom on the shoals of Dead Man’s Cove. She wondered if they’d ever paid for their crimes. Whether the ghosts of their victims haunted that derelict ship, and the cove itself.

Juliette refused to believe in ghosts. Nevertheless, it suddenly seemed a wise idea to move closer to her irritating employer. She strolled toward him, glancing idly over his shoulder at the sketch he was working on.

He slapped the pad facedown on his knees and grimaced at her. “I don’t like an audience for my work,” he said.

“It’s very good,” she said, surprised. The rough sketch was more than an accurate compilation of details. It conveyed the sense of eerie desolation, of loss and sorrow and conscienceless crime.

“An art critic, my boy?” he drawled, gazing up at her out of those perceptive silver eyes. “I merely dabble at it. Something to help me remember my travels.”

It was a thick sketch pad, well worn. Without considering
the consequences, she held out her hand for it. To her surprise, he handed it to her, watching as she sank down in the sand beside him and began leafing through it.

He was more than good. He was astonishing. The depth and detail, the emotion and wit, in his pen-and-ink drawings brought each scene to life, from a bazaar in some Arabian city to a goatherd in what looked like Greece. She turned page after page, overcome with nostalgia, stopping with surprise at the drawing of a spectacularly naked woman.

“Sarita,” she said, her voice rich with amusement.

She’d managed to shock her companion. He stared at her. “How in God’s name would you know the most famous courtesan in Alexandria?” he demanded.

Juliette smiled, a smug, boyish smile. “I’ve traveled a bit in me time,” she said. “I’ve even been in her house on El-Babeer Street.”

His dark eyebrows drew together in blatant disapproval. “You shouldn’t have been,” he said flatly. “Who was fool enough to take you there?”

“My f-friend.” She’d been about to say her father. Indeed, she’d been all of twelve at the time, dressed as a boy as usual, and Sarita had fed her sugared grapes and sweetmeats before she disappeared with Black Jack MacGowan, leaving the young Juliette to entertain herself with Sarita’s pet monkey. “When I was fifteen,” she continued, embroidering the tale. “M’friend and I saved up our money and went to see her for an initiation, so to speak.”

“I doubt it,” he said wryly. “She doesn’t waste her time with scrubby schoolboys.”

“Am not!”

“Then what are you, young Julian?” he asked in a voice that barely disguised its menace.

Damn him, Juliette thought. He couldn’t know the truth, but he was certainly perceptive enough to know there was more to her than met the eye.

She drew her knees up, clasping her hands around them and turning to look at him. She hadn’t realized she was sitting so close. He was lounging against the rock in a comfortable enough posture, but she couldn’t rid herself of the notion that all that graceful energy lay curled beneath the surface, ready to leap into action. He was not a restful man.

“What do you think I am?” she countered boldly.

He smiled then, that small, taunting smile that made her want to slap him. “I’m not quite sure. Perhaps it would be easier to tell you what I
don’t
think you are.”

Juliette could feel the chill of fear in the pit of her stomach, but she refused to give in to it. “All right,” she said. “What don’t you think I am?”

“I don’t think you’re a serving lad. Apparently you told Dulcie your mother was a serving maid and your father was a sailor. I doubt that very much. Someone in your parentage comes from the upper classes. I imagine you might be some minor aristocrat’s bastard. The serving-maid mother might be accurate enough. I know of a likely lad with just such a parentage.”

“Not me, sir,” Juliette denied it. “My father was a sailor. Took me with him, he did, when my mother passed away. Then he died aboard ship, and I was stranded in Egypt with no one to look after me. I learned how to take care of myself early on.”

“Indeed,” he murmured. “And what made you return
to England? Homesickness? Patriotism? Longing for your native land?”

She tried to keep the grimace from her face. “It was a mistake,” she said. “I thought I ought to come back and see if I could find some of my mother’s people. But they’d all died out, and there was no one. So I’m off for sunny climates again, as soon as I can earn passage.”

“You could always sign on as cabin boy,” Ramsey suggested, mockery dancing in his gray eyes. “You’re a pretty enough lad, and I wouldn’t imagine you’d have any trouble getting a position.”

“Considering the trouble you went to to save me from Sir Neville’s attentions, that would be somewhat of a waste, wouldn’t it?” Juliette countered.

“No trouble at all, my boy,” he murmured. “Think nothing of it. But if you think you’re going to earn passage to Egypt on the salary I’m planning to pay you, then you greatly overestimate my affection for you.”

Juliette bit her lip. She shouldn’t have been so frank about her plans, but in truth, he had a way of getting inside her guard. “I intend to look for the right opportunity.”

“I’m certain you do. Remind me to tell Hannigan to lock up all our valuables.”

“Sir!” Juliette protested. “I wouldn’t think of repaying your kindness by stealing.”

“Julian!” he mocked in an identical tone of voice. “I believe you’re capable of just about anything. Why don’t you see what delights Dulcie has packed for us? I, for one, am famished.”

She started to rise with unconscious grace, then quickly remembered her role. “Right-o, guv’nor,” she said, giving him a little salute.

His mocking voice drifted over to her as she rummaged through the picnic basket. “You and I have something in common, my boy.”

“What’s that, sir?” She was getting adept at remembering the “sirs,” Juliette thought, proud of herself.

“A dislike for ‘this blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,’” he said.

“It’s not that I dislike it,” she said earnestly. “Indeed, for some it is a ‘demi-paradise, a scepter’d isle.’ I just don’t feel at home here.”

“A boy who knows his Shakespeare,” Ramsey said. “Astonishing. Did you pick that up from your visit with Sarita?”

She met his gaze with commendable boldness. “Since you knew her well enough to sketch that picture, I imagine you know the answer to that. She’s not one to waste much time on intellectual conversation.”

He responded with a shout of laughter. “True enough. But her physical communication is beyond compare.”

She could feel the involuntary blush rise to her face, and could only hope the remnants of her exposure to the sun would disguise her reaction. “I wouldn’t know,” she said stiffly, detesting the idea of the tall man with the leanly elegant body wrapped in Sarita’s plump, talented arms.

“I thought you and your friend enjoyed her favors one night,” he said.

Hell and damnation, the man was tenacious. She considered brazening it out, then dismissed the notion. He could start asking detailed questions, ones for which she had no answers.

“I lied,” she said.

“I know you did, my boy. I just wonder what else you’re lying about.”

“Not a bloomin’ thing,” she protested, summoning all her earnestness.

“Really? I suppose I’ll have to take you at your word,” he said pleasantly enough. “For now,” he added.

Juliette held herself very still, watching him from across the small stretch of sand. “If you don’t trust me …” she began, affronted.

“Not in the least. But then, I trust no one. Except for Val, of course. I might offer you a bit of advice, Julian—a helpful hint or two if you want to go on in this world.”

Juliette controlled her very strong desire to tell him to stuff it. “I’d be honored.”

“You might try to remember to keep your accents straight,” he said.

She stared at him, making no effort to disguise her hostility. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said frostily.

He laughed, rising to his full, overpowering height and starting toward her across the narrow spit of sand. “I’m sure you don’t,” he mocked. “Maybe I’ll have to explain in detail.”

He reached for her, his long arms stretched out, and Juliette very calmly wondered whether she was going to have to swim to safety.

Instead, he took the basket, moving away from her without touching her. It was relief, not disappointment, that swept over her, making her almost dizzy. She watched him stroll back to the sunny spot by the rock and sink down. He patted the sand beside him invitingly. “Come have some lunch, my boy.”

And Juliette decided there and then that she would leave Hampton Regis at the first opportunity and take her chances in one of the larger ports. She was beginning to have the very lowering suspicion that Philip Ramsey might be a great deal more dangerous than Mark-David Lemur himself.

At least with Lemur, her feelings were uncomplicated. She hated him, pure and simple.

With Philip Ramsey, her feelings were a great deal less clear. And right now she didn’t have room for uncertainty in her life.

She would run. First chance she got. Before she found she wanted to stay.

Phelan had never known a creature like her. Granted, women dressing as boys were not part of his general acquaintance, but he’d seen a great many things during his travels, and yet no one came close to the girl who called herself Julian Smith.

Her eyes, for one thing. They weren’t the calculatedly bewitching, kohl-accented eyes of a professional seducer like Sarita. They weren’t the demure, shyly flirtatious ones of the proper young ladies paraded in front of him whenever he held still long enough for the matchmakers to catch wind of him. And they weren’t the cool, disinterested gaze of the women he’d known who’d been far more involved with their lovers or with other passions in their lives, and had none to spare for him.

Her eyes were alive with emotions: wariness, hostility, defensiveness, boldness. She watched him when she didn’t think he was aware of it, and he recognized the unwilling fascination in her warm brown gaze, the rampant curiosity mixed with a healthy fear.

She was making her way through a goodly portion of the food Dulcie had packed, and he watched her surreptitiously.
He’d seldom seen women eat as much, and according to Hannigan, she’d put away a similar amount at her previous meals. He wondered idly whether she was pregnant.

It would explain a great deal. She could be the daughter of the bourgeoisie, seduced by some lecher and thrown out of the house by a stern father. Or perhaps she’d run before she could be ejected.

But he didn’t think so. There was a certain purity in her curious brown gaze. He wanted to satisfy that curiosity. For all the unconventional aspect of her current life, he was convinced she was an innocent. Or perhaps not innocent in the way proper young English ladies were—anyone who recognized the legendary Sarita knew far more about matters of the flesh than many women of her class learned in their entire lifetimes. And he had no interest in whether she still possessed her virginity. As far as he was concerned, chastity in a female was a greatly overrated commodity—an inconvenience to be disposed of as swiftly as possible. He wasn’t possessed of any romantic illusions about being the first one.

But she was emotionally untouched, of that he was fairly certain. Virginal in a way that was more complete than Valerian’s beloved Sophie. Julian Smith’s innocence went deeper than mere flesh. There was a certain childlike quality about her that she tried to fight, and only made stronger. What in God’s name had made her embark on this ridiculous masquerade? What in God’s name made her think she could get away with it?

“It’s actually hot,” she said in her husky voice, pushing her brown curls away from her slender neck.

He turned his gaze out to sea. He’d never been aroused
by the nape of a woman’s neck before, but apparently there was a first time for anything. “I suppose even England gets hot occasionally,” he said, tossing an apple core into the bushes. “Why don’t you go swimming?” he suggested, waiting to see her reaction.

She was getting used to him. She cocked her head to one side, considering it. “I might,” she said, and he knew she had no intention of stripping off her disguising clothes to do any such thing. “Though I expect the water’s too cold.”

“Not for such a stalwart little thing as yourself.”

“Why don’t you join me?” she countered.

Obviously he hadn’t managed to cow her. He should have found that knowledge annoying. Instead, he found it faintly exhilarating. “I’ll consider it. You strip off your clothes and go first.”

To his surprise she rose, graceful as always, and reached for the bone buttons at her throat. She undid first one, then a second, exposing a small portion of her skin. It was as golden as the rest of her skin, the result of whatever time she’d spent away from England, and he wondered how far that pale golden color extended. And how far she was going to carry her bluff.

He stretched out in the sand. “Go ahead,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll watch to make certain you don’t drown.”

She didn’t even hesitate, damn her. She walked straight to the edge of the sea, her narrow back to him, and a moment later the white shirt descended to her shoulders. Long enough for him to stare at the delicious shape of her upper spine, before she yanked the shirt back up again and stepped away from the incoming tide. By the time she turned back to face him, the shirt was carefully fastened most of the way to her neck, and he was so damned hard
he had to put his sketch pad across his lap to disguise his condition.

“It’s too cold,” she said, obviously feeling triumphant that she’d managed to fool him. Little did she know that no boy had ever had such beautiful, delicate shoulders.

He surged to his feet, grimacing in discomfort. “I’m going for a walk,” he said. “Wait here for me.”

“Aren’t you going to swim?” she asked innocently.

He almost snarled. On the one hand, the icy British water would take care of his pressing problem. On the other, one look at his body unclothed and she’d think he was as dedicated a pervert as Sir Neville Pinworth. If she was brave enough to look.

He was almost tempted to do it, just to pay her back. He could think of a lot more pleasant ways to teach her a lesson about teasing the male of the species, but he’d already decided now wasn’t the time. Hadn’t he?

“I’ll be back,” he said, walking away from her before she noticed his interesting condition. The sand was hot beneath his bare feet, the sun was blazing overhead, and the ghostly wreck of the doomed ship cast a dark shadow across the beach. It suited his mood perfectly.

Juliette dropped down to the ground, well pleased with herself. She’d managed to wipe out any possible doubts, of that she was certain. If by any chance he suspected she might be female, she had now put those suspicions to rest. She was just as glad he hadn’t taken her up on her suggestion, however. She didn’t want to see him strip off his clothes and dive into the water. She found his body too disturbing fully dressed.

It
was
hot. She would have been more than willing to cool off in the icy Atlantic waters if she hadn’t had a witness.
As it was, she would let the exhaustion of the past few weeks take over, let the hot sun bake into her bones, warming her for the first time since she’d been back in this shadowed land. She lay back in the sand, feeling the hot grains through the thin cotton of her shirt, and she stretched, letting her toes dig into the ground, reaching her arms out over her head, blessedly alone and unobserved.

She felt oddly, femininely sensual, despite her trousers and her short-cropped hair. Languishing there in the bright afternoon sun, she felt like a sleek, contented cat: graceful, self-absorbed, and slightly wicked. It was a good thing her new employer had decided to make himself scarce. If he saw her stretching out on the ground, he’d probably decide she was even odder than he already suspected.

She closed her eyes and watched the colors and patterns the sunlight played against her lids. She smelled the sea, the earth, the distant drift of roses on the air. And then, content, she thought about the events that had brought her to this time and place.

She could see it happening all over again. Mark-David Lemur, his soft white hand holding hers, forcing the wedding ring down over her finger, his grip hot and damp and painful. She’d been too numb with grief over Black Jack’s death to think clearly. The fever had come upon him so quickly, turning his vibrant, robust body into a skeletal frame, leaving him only enough strength for a dying request. She was to marry his good friend Lemur and travel back to England with him.

She’d done so, of course. How could she deny her beloved father anything, particularly his final request? Indeed, for the first week it had made little difference. She’d spent the time packing up all her father’s belongings, a
long and varied lifetime filtering down into a few trunks and boxes.

It wasn’t until they were aboard the ship that was to take them to England that she discovered she had made a very grave mistake. Mark-David’s feelings for her were far from avuncular, and far from affectionate. His notion of a long-delayed wedding night left his bride bruised, debased, and degraded. And still a virgin.

He’d raged at her, blaming her for his inability to complete his acts. He’d demanded her assistance, something she’d been too angry and too ignorant to provide. And then he’d hurt her, deliberately, taking pleasure in administering the pain.

The trip to England had been endless. For days on end she would see no one, locked in the small, stuffy cabin. And then Mark-David would come to her again. And once again fail.

There was no escape from a ship at sea, except over the side, and Juliette wasn’t ready to do that. Her father had taught her that cowardice was the greatest sin of all, and she wouldn’t take the easy way out. She lowered her hateful glances, spoke in a soft, pleasant voice, and bided her time.

It had come soon enough. They’d been in London a scant three days, and Lemur was planning to take her out to Chichester, to the dark and dank old house that had been in the MacGowan family for centuries. Black Jack had always said it was the house that had driven him to foreign climes, that and the bloody English weather.

Juliette had planned well. She’d managed to trade the diamond stickpin that had belonged to her father for a set of boy’s clothes. She had no access to most of the famous MacGowan diamonds, but Mark-David had insisted she
wear the earbobs to the opera that night, and he’d forgotten to retrieve them. They were her hedge against total disaster.

She had no foolish doubts that anyone would help her. She was Lemur’s wife, his chattel. Her money and possessions now belonged to him, as did her body and soul. Her mind and heart she could still call her own, and she was unwilling to deed her body over to him any longer. Chopping off her long dark hair, she’d dressed in the clothes she’d bought, pulled on the too-large shoes, and taken off into the predawn light.

There was always the possibility that Lemur might let her go. He had what he wanted most—control of the money her father had left her. For all her practicality, Juliette had little idea as to whether it was a fortune or a competence, and she didn’t care. It had brought Mark-David Lemur down upon her head, and for that she cursed it. Besides, since it was no longer her own, the amount involved hardly mattered.

But it wouldn’t do to underestimate Lemur. He was a greedy man, an insatiable man, one who wouldn’t relinquish what was his, no matter how worthless he considered it to be. And he had unfinished business with her.

A stray shiver swept over her body as she reclined in the sand. Sooner or later he would have killed her, she knew that with an instinct both irrational and absolutely certain. Each time he came to her, his rage grew, and the look in his pale eyes had bordered on murderous. If he found her, after she’d run, then there’d be no hope for her at all.

But he wouldn’t find her. He wouldn’t comb the tiny seaside villages, looking for his runaway bride. And he’d never think that the new serving lad out at Sutter’s Head had any connection with Juliette MacGowan. Juliette MacGowan
Lemur, she corrected herself truthfully, with a hateful shudder.

Better not to think about it, brood on it. Better to revel in the warmth of the sun baking into her bones, ridding them of a month-old chill that she’d been afraid would never leave her.

Philip Ramsey’s gaze was another source of heat. She wasn’t sure why; there was none of the wet-eyed, slack-jawed lust she recognized in Lemur’s pale face. But there was a warmth, an intensity that burned her hotter than the sun, and like a moth drawn to a flame, she wanted to drift closer.

What if she’d married a man like Ramsey? What if he’d been the one touching her body, forcing her to do degrading things? Would she have fought so hard?

Though he didn’t strike her as the sort who wouldn’t enjoy the more natural forms of mating. And even some of Lemur’s odd desires might not seem so odd if practiced by someone of Ramsey’s attractions.

She put her hands up to her cheeks, wondering if she was getting feverish in the hot sun. What a bizarre, indecent thought! She never wanted a man to touch her again, particularly not in that way. She certainly didn’t want someone with Philip Ramsey’s hard, beautiful hands and thin, sensual mouth touching her.

But she could dream of the perfect lover. Someone gentle, sweet, undemanding, someone to protect and cherish her. Someone to slay the dragons and keep her safe.

There was only one problem with knight-errants. They kept their damsels safe behind a locked wall. They’d slay the dragons, all right, but then keep her chained to the life they decreed. Perhaps she might even prefer the fiery death
a dragon might provide. But was Philip Ramsey a knight-errant or a dragon?

It didn’t matter. She wanted nothing from him but his money. And a safe place to hide before she could book passage away from this cold green land. This demi-hell, this England.

She must have drifted off to sleep. The dreams were vague, shifting, erotic, soft as a sea breeze, damp as the rough surf. She couldn’t remember details, didn’t even recognize them. All she knew was the warmth and nervy frustration that filtered through her body as she arched against the hand that slid over her cheek, under her tumbled mop of hair, and she turned her face into that hand, nuzzling against it, her lips soft on the callused palm, tasting the sea-salt taste of him.

And then her eyes flew open, to meet her companion’s ironic gaze, and she jerked away, slamming her head against the outcropping of rock and letting out an anguished howl.

He sat back on his heels, watching her. His shirt was unfastened, exposing his chest, and she saw with utter fascination that he had hair. Dark hair, not too much. She wondered what it would feel like beneath her fingers. Beneath her mouth.

“I was trying to wake you gently,” he said, his cool silver eyes seeing too much. “You looked as if you were having such a pleasant dream.”

“I don’t remember it,” she said, edging away from him. It was only half a lie. She didn’t remember all of it. She just knew it had something to do with his mouth.

“Pity,” he murmured. “You look quite flushed. Do you want to change your mind about swimming?”