Some Enchanted Evening (23 page)

Now Ogley cleared his throat.

The maid stopped giggling. The footman sidled out the door. Waldemar straightened to a military posture. His smile disappeared. His mouth snapped shut.

"So how did it feel" — Ogley picked up his verbal dagger — "to see your old commander once again?"

"Passing fair, sir." Waldemar marched to the table and placed copies of Ogley's book into a basket to be transported down to the drawing room later.

"He appears to have suffered no ill effects from his time on the Peninsula." Ogley rubbed the gilding on the picture frame and considered whether he should buy some portraits to hang in his bedchamber.

"None whatsoever, sir." Waldemar laid out Ogley's belt and saber, his field decorations and his epaulets.

"Except for that scar on his forehead. It didn't heal well. Did you notice?" Ogley poured himself a glass of brandy and pretended to be embarrassed by his lapse of memory. "But how silly of me. His scar matches the scars on your arms, the ones you got while rescuing him from that fire.
How
did that happen?"

Waldemar didn't move. Didn't lift his gaze. "I don't remember, sir."

Slowly and with great relish Ogley slid in the blade. "You'll have to read it in my book."

Waldemar said nothing. Nothing. He was as mute and expressionless as a dummy.

Ogley chuckled. "I do believe that at last you've become everything a commander could want in an aide."

In a flat tone Waldemar said, "Yes, sir."

In truth Ogley had at last seen clear signs that he had at last broken the man Hepburn called unbreakable. There was an emptiness in Waldemar's eyes, a lack of expression on his low-class, tenement face. He had grown almost boring, but Ogley would never give him up. Never. Waldemar was his for life. Ogley had won where Hepburn could not. He intended to flaunt his victory beneath Hepburn's hooked and insufferable nose.

"I imagine you miss Hepburn and all the grand adventures the two of you had together," Ogley taunted.

Waldemar paused for a painful, telling moment. "I don't remember any adventures, sir. I believe you were the one who experienced adventures."

Strolling across to the window, Ogley swirled the pungent liquor in the glass. "Yes. Yes, and don't you forget it. I'm the one who broke into the French armory and stole their ammunition. I'm the one who rescued Hepburn from the French prison after his foolish spy attempt. I'm the one who —" He broke off abruptly.

A shapely woman walked across the broad expanse of lawn below. Her glossy black hair had been pulled back into a chignon, and in it she wore a comb with a mantilla draped artfully around her face. He couldn't see her features through the lace, but the way she walked — hands folded before her, pacing across the grass as if no emergency on earth could make her break into a run — reminded him of Carmen. It was that stately, sensual stride that had first attracted him to her, and this woman wore a scarlet gown in the same shade and style Carmen had so favored.

He blinked. But it couldn't be Carmen. He'd left her behind without a backward glance when he'd returned to England and his wife. There was no way Carmen could have followed him here to a village in Scotland.

Seeing Hepburn must have brought forth memories better discarded.

Then the woman turned her head and stared.

"Christ Jesus!" Ogley jumped so hard, he slopped the brandy onto his clean starched shirt.

It was her
. It was Carmen.

"Sir, is there something wrong?" Waldemar asked.

Ogley leaped away from the window. "Yes. You can explain
that/"
He gestured violently.

Keeping a wary eye cocked on Ogley, Waldemar walked to the window and looked out.

"Well?" Ogley snapped.

Waldemar cringed as if he feared Ogley would strike him. "I ... don't see anything, sir."

Ogley shoved Waldemar away and stared outside.

It was true. She was gone.

Chapter Twenty

Only those who row the boat make waves
.

— The Old Men of Freya Crags

In the shadows of the trees Robert threw a brown cloak over Clarice and held her still. At the upstairs window he could see Ogley and Waldemar staring down at the lawn. Ogley slammed open the window, stuck his head out, and looked about wildly.

Quietly Waldemar surveyed the scene. Robert knew the moment he spotted them. They looked at each other. The two men nodded at each other in subdued satisfaction. Then, while Ogley yelled, Waldemar shut the window.

Waldemar had learned the skill of observation during his years as a housebreaker, and it was he who had taught Robert to look beyond the obvious. For all Ogley's sly skills, he'd never learned that, and that Was why, around the campfires, he was so often the butt of jokes.

Of course, it hadn't mattered. He got his revenge in a million petty ways and one very big one. He always sent Robert out on the most dangerous missions, and now he held Robert's best friend in eternal servitude. The situation was not to be borne, and Robert intended to end it here and now.

Keeping his arm around Clarice and the cape over her head, Robert said, "Walk with me. You can put yourself back together in my cottage."

Obediently she followed him, and when the door shut behind them, she tossed off the cloak.

It was odd to see her standing there, familiar in her stance and her regal attitude, yet a stranger in her looks. Working from a miniature portrait of Senora Menendez, Clarice had made her features resemble Carmen's to a frightening degree. Somehow she had darkened and lined her eyes, giving them an almond shape. Her mouth was redder, lusher, colored in the pucker of a kiss. She had created hollows under her cheekbones, and her chin looked broader. With the black wig and mantilla, and the addition of the scarlet gown, Robert thought — hoped — Clarice could pass for Carmen at close range if Ogley didn't examine her too carefully.

They had waited in the trees, Clarice enveloped in the brown cloak. Knowing Ogley as he did, Robert was sure the colonel would want to look over the estate and gloat that he held the lord of the manor in his power. Ogley had done just that. When he had looked out the window, Robert had said, "Now," and Clarice had taken her stroll.

When Ogley had leaped away, Robert called her back and she ran to him. She still didn't know why she was doing this, but she no longer asked. Thank the Lord, for Robert didn't want to tell her. He didn't dare take the chance that she would refuse to hoodwink the man she believed to be a hero.

Tomorrow they would tighten the thumbscrews with another appearance, and with Clarice's help and the grace of God, by this time two days hence Waldemar would be on a ship in Edinburgh harbor.

With Clarice's help and the grace of God ...

She stood watching Robert with eyes that saw too much. "Could I ask you a question?"

Inevitable, he supposed. "Of course."

"You were in Colonel Ogley's command. What did you think of him?"

He lifted his eyebrows. That was not the question he had anticipated. "Why do you ask that?"

"He's not what I expected. I thought he would be a man out of the normal, a great man occupied with great things. Instead, he's ... he made me uncomfortable. He leered at me." She searched for the words as if she feared she wasn't making herself clear. "In front of his wife."

Hepburn nodded slowly.

Which seemed to tell her all she needed to know. "So he isn't the hero we all want to worship."

"Worship him if you like." Taking her by the waist, Hepburn pulled her close, wanting her heat to warm him. "But love me."

Although she yielded, her body pliant against his, still she asked, "It's Colonel Ogley for whom I'm performing this charade, isn't it?"

She was too acute. "Why do you say that?"

"Because I looked up to see who was gazing at me from the house."

Aghast at her daring, he asked, "You looked?"

"Yes, I looked. Don't worry so." She placed her hand against his cheek. "I have a mirror. I know I was successful in making myself look like
her
. I fooled him, didn't I?"

Yes. Ogley's behavior had made it clear that he did think he'd seen Carmen. Robert nodded, enjoying the caress of her hand against his skin, the stroke of her thumb against his lips. "You fooled him. I always knew you would."

"So the game begins." Freeing herself, she walked into the bedchamber and shut the door behind her.

He looked at the cottage that had seen so much of his misery on his return. The two rooms had been used thirty years before for the overflow guests who came to his mother's parties. The living room and bedroom were of generous proportions, and were handsomely furnished and decorated, if a little old-fashioned. He had been comfortable living here alone, and now, with the advent of Colonel Ogley, Robert was able to use his isolation to good advantage.

When the door to the bedchamber opened, the Princess Clarice he recognized stepped out with her pink day dress loose °n her shoulders. Coming to him, she turned her back. "Will you finish buttoning me?"

The buttons at the top of the gown gaped open, showing him a smooth expanse of golden skin, the ridge of her spine, and the cool column of her neck. He didn't want to button her; he wanted to unbutton her, to take right now what she'd promised him.
If you want me, I'll have you,
she had said. Then she'd added.
For now.

He wanted that act of joining with her even before he had done his duty. The woman was a peril to him and his intentions.

On the other hand, the base of her neck, with its tendrils of wispy curls, tempted him, and what was the harm in one kiss?

Clarice felt the touch of his lips against her skin and closed her eyes on a wave of bliss and triumph. With a little twisting and turning she could have fastened her own buttons, but she needed the reassurance that she was more to Robert than a mannequin and a charlatan. She needed to know that she attracted him as he attracted her. And she wanted his kiss ... all of his kisses.

He moved close against her, his body heating hers. His mouth opened against her skin, and he tasted her as if she were cream and he were a cat. His lips slid down her spine, lingering on each vertebra, sending chills down to her toes. She swayed with the onset of passion and wondered how this man had so quickly accustomed her to his touch. She was like an instrument who, until she met Robert, had played discordant music. Now, as his fingers glided across her bare skin, she could play a symphony and each note would vibrate in perfect tune. But for him. Only for him.

Stepping back, he cleared his throat and brusquely fastened her buttons. With his hands on her arms he walked her toward a chair, turned her, and pushed her into the seat. She stared up at him, not comprehending his briskness as he backed away.

Suddenly, without warning of any kind, she saw a blur of movement. A big man with sandy hair, dressed in a servant's livery, leaped from the open window toward Robert, catching him around the waist. They went tumbling across the floor, and before her astonished eyes Robert tossed his attacker over his head. The attacker landed flat on his back, then with a "Ha!" he sprang to his feet and jumped at Robert. He was younger and bigger than Robert, but Robert rolled, catching him on the head with a close-fisted blow that made a sound like a muffled gong. As if it were nothing, the fellow shook it off and kept coming. The struggle was intense and silent, the two men punching and tossing each other with a careless disregard for anything but victory.

Clarice shook with anxiety. It was just like yesterday. Would this end in blood, gore, and death too? She pulled her feet up, stood on the chair to stay out of the way ... to jump on Robert's attacker if necessary.

She could think of nothing but Robert's mad fury about the MacGees and the man stalking through the night. This must be him; he must have decided to attack at last. But Robert in a rage was formidable, and she actually feared for his attacker. Robert would kill him.

Then, to her astonishment, in a move so swift she didn't see the details, the attacker rolled Robert onto his face and sat on Robert's back, Robert's arm twisted behind him. In an accent thick with cockney the fellow said, "Ah, lad, that was no fight. Ye've grown weak in yer old age!"

"My shoulder," Robert moaned. "You've dislocated my shoulder."

Jumping to the floor, Clarice picked up a vase and held it high over the attacker's head, ready to bring it down and take him out.

But the man let Robert go at once. " 'Ey, man, I didn't mean t' —"

Robert rolled, caught him under the knees, and before Clarice could blink, Robert was on top, sitting on the attacker's back and saying, "Old age and treachery will always win over youth and compassion." He cranked his attacker's arm up so high, Clarice winced. "Surrender," he demanded.

His attacker grunted, the muscles in his neck corded, his head lifted to ease the pain. "Ye silly fool, o' course I surrender."

Robert let him go at once.

The fellow rolled over and faced Robert. They stared at each other. Clarice held her breath, waiting for the recriminations to begin.