Swept Away (17 page)

When Willerkins had fetched the trunk from the vicar’s coach, Althorpe had excused himself to change. The clothes had once been his and had been stored in the attic of the vicarage, even so they were, sadly enough, not much of an improvement. He was no longer the gangly youth who had gone off to sea in search of the Seven Wonders, nor was he the righteous young officer who had stalked off to war. His shoulders were considerably broader and strained the seams of the royal blue velvet jacket Stanley had brought. The high white collar of the linen shirt seemed to constrict his throat, and the buttons on the cream silk waistcoat tested the strength of the embroidery around the holes. The nankeen breeches were a slightly better fit, though his thighs were so taut with muscle, the lightweight fabric molded to them as immodestly as the wet linen drawers that, try as she might to scrub her mind, Annaleah would likely never eradicate from her thoughts.

He looked very much like a pirate. With his gleaming black hair, his weathered complexion, she could easily envision him on the rolling deck of a tall ship, his hands braced on the wheel, his smile as gleamingly ominous as the skull and crossbones flying overhead.

Yet as easily as she could picture him as a pirate, she could not envision him a traitor. If he was a sneaking, conniving, treacherous malfeasant, would not some of that sly cunning show in his eyes? His manners? If he was a cold-blooded murderer, would he not betray some degree of lethal impatience with Lucille Althorpe? Her flirtatious entreaties for him to elaborate on his lightning glimmers of shipboard life had even sent Florence’s hand curling longingly around the silver head of her walking stick on more than one occasion.

By the time Throckmorton appeared to ring the six o’clock gong, the storm was in a full-blown rage. Willerkins reported that the vicar’s coach had been taken to the stables to prevent it being blown into the next parish, also that he had taken the liberty of having an additional bedchamber prepared for overnight guests. Lucille looked aghast at the very notion of having to spend the night at Widdicombe House, but when the wind started to howl and the rain began to pelt the windows like sprays of pigeon shot, her misgivings were replaced by alarmed whimperings.

Out of deference for Florence’s age and established routines supper was served early, at eight. Throughout the meal of boiled chicken, mutton pie, and stewed kidneys, Anna merely pushed her fork around the plate, building a small hillock out of her food then flattening it again. She kept one eye on the lightning and thunder crashing outside, one eye on Emory Althorpe, and if she had time between she glanced at Stanley who now felt it his duty to point out the fact that Emory had never liked kidneys, was not overly fond of pickled eel, and did not tolerate the gastric effects of cabbage well. Lucille had begun to seriously grate on Anna's nerves, laughing in a high, tinkling falsetto at nearly everything Emory said, or interrupting her husband to add something completely irrelevant to the conversation.

When supper was over, they returned to the parlor, where brandy was brought in on a tray alongside a small teak box. Before Willerkins went to the men, he opened the box for Florence, who helped herself to one of the cigars inside, clipped the end with her teeth, and spat the nub in the general direction of the hearth.

If nothing else, it had the effect of finally rendering Lucille speechless, especially when Emory struck a match and lit it for her, then casually strolled back to his seat and lit one for himself.

Annaleah’s father and brother both indulged in dinner cigars, and while she had never in all her years seen a woman do so, she had heard rumours that the Queen was known to enjoy one on occasion. In polite London society, of course, it would have been considered the height of rudeness for a gentleman to indulge in front of a lady. But they were in a house atop a storm-swept cliff in Devonshire, and because it was a lady herself who had drawn the first puff, that particular rule, like so many others that had been cast upon the wind thus far, seemed a bit absurd.

Anna was almost tempted to take one herself and might have done so had Lucille not clapped her little hands and declared it such fun to be so wicked. Against Stanley’s solemn advice, she entreated Emory to light a cigar for her, and when he did so, she not only coughed herself into a blinding fit of tears, but when the fit passed, her face wavered between ash gray and a rather spectacular shade of green.

Florence and the men were able, after that, to enjoy their brandies and cigars with little interruption save for the ragings of Mother Nature.

“I expect we shall see the kidneys again at breakfast,” Florence remarked as she stubbed out the last smoldering inch. “Mildred is not one to waste good viscera. Lift the crust of a pastry at one meal, you are bound to find remainders of another, usually disguised with mustard or fennel. I cannot remember the last time she was pressed into cooking for more than one guest at a time, however, so there will either be sufficient fare to feed ten in the morning, or barely enough to fill a hole in your tooth.”

“You have already been generous beyond the pale, Dame Widdicombe. I only regret that circumstances force us to make these further intrusions on your hospitality.”

“Nonsense, Vicar. I have not had two such handsome gentlemen staying under my roof in too many years to recount. To that end, I believe I shall retire to my bed and spare all of you the need to look politely at your hands.”

She accepted Emory’s help out of the chair and walked stiffly to the door. “Willerkins will show you to your room, Vicar, when you are ready. He assures me he has prepared one of the more civilized bedchambers for you. As for you, Rory dear, you have been brought down out of the attic and put in a room with a water closet and a real tub for bathing. I trust you’ll not get the two confused,” she added with a wink. “Anna, you may walk me to the stairs then return and take my place as hostess. No, no. Carry on as long as you like. I doubt I shall get much sleep with this thunder crashing all about us, but I have had three brandies and should find my bed well enough with Willerkins help.”

After Florence bid her last good night, Annaleah accompanied her across the hall, carrying a three tined candelabra to augment the light cast by the scattered wall sconces.

“Well?” Florence leaned close to whisper. “What do you make of the evening thus far?”

Anna glanced over her shoulder. “I think Reverend Althorpe is genuinely happy to see his brother. He is trying very hard, at any rate, to help restore some memories. As for Lucille--”

Florence chuckled. “I think if sweet Lucille stares any harder, poor Rory will have scorch marks in his breeches.”

“Auntie!”

“Never you mind, Auntie. I am not too old or dry to appreciate the healthier attributes of a man’s body. Nor should you be playing the gulled innocent with me, young lady. I was not the one duelling with the rogue’s tongue out on the cliffs this afternoon.”

Annaleah stopped cold, letting her aunt walk ahead several paces into the shadows before she found her voice. “You saw us?”

“Good gracious, if I could still see across the
room
with any clarity, I would not have lively conversations with my coat tree each morning. It was Ethel who saw you. She told Mildred and Mildred told Willerkins and Willerkins--” Florence half turned and raised an eyebrow to where Willerkins hovered in the shadows-- “tells me everything. Not that I would not have guessed something was amiss, young lady, for he has put a fine blush in your cheeks, and it suits you. From the sound of it, I wish I had seen it. Willerkins says you gave your fiancé quite an eyeful.”

“Oh...Auntie... It was not on Mr. Althorpe’s initiative. It was mine. Entirely mine. I was desperate to discourage Lord Barrimore’s proposal and all I could think to do on the moment was--”

“Throw yourself in the arms of another man? And Rory obliged of course, how gallant.” Florence pursed her lips. “I expect if you wanted to discourage the marquis, then you have succeeded. As related by Ethel, the poor man’s back was so stiff with indignation, she heard it crack when he clambered up into his carriage. It is a wonder he did not appear on my doorstep tonight demanding a duel of another sort; lucky for all of us the storm closed in so swiftly. On the other hand, I would not be surprised if, as soon as it departs, your brother is the one appearing on my doorstep--with a warrant to remove you from this house of shameless debauchery.”

Anna groaned softly, for she had never even considered that the repercussions might extend to her aunt. The candelabra seemed to grow inordinately heavy. It tipped and splashed wax on the floor and she would have dropped it had a familiar hand not reached past her shoulder and gently relieved her of the burden. Emory had come up quietly behind them and stood beside her now with his face bathed in the bright yellow glare, his eyes reflecting tiny sparks of light from the flames.

“If blame is being apportioned, ladies, I will bear my share. I believe it takes two to give an eyeful.”

He left Anna gaping after him as he gave the candelabra to Willerkins and walked over to where Florence waited at the bottom of the stairs. She gave him a crinkly smile and rested a gnarled hand on his cheek.

“And such a devilish handsome eyeful you are too,” she whispered. “If I were sixty years younger, or even forty...”

He caught up her hand and pressed it to his lips. “You would likely still be too much for me to handle.”

Her smile held a moment longer then gave way to a slow sigh of resignation. “I do not imagine we shall have the pleasure of your company much longer, will we? But you’ll not leave without saying goodbye?”

“On that you have my word though I am at a loss to know what I could ever do or say to thank you.”

Florence chuckled again. “Would that I were wicked enough to tell you.”

She reclaimed her hand and took Willerkins’ arm, then turned to climb the stairs. Emory stayed by the balustrade until they arrived at the top, then he watched a few seconds more as the bloom thrown by the candlelight wavered away into the darkness.

Anna was standing exactly where he had left her. The white muslin of her dress glowed softly against the shadows; her skin was so pale the circles of color on her cheeks stood out like paint.

His voice was as soft and dusky as the shadows and Anna tried not to notice how his eyes were following the curve of her throat, her shoulder, the low décolletage of her bodice while he spoke. She had changed clothes before dinner and foolishly discarded her first choice of a high necked cotton day dress for a shiny froth of silk that left her breasts no room for error.

“Where will you go? With no memory of who might be a friend and who a foe, how can you possibly travel anywhere with any confidence? Would you not be exposing yourself to the far greater danger of walking blindly into a trap?”

He drew closer. “I am flattered, Miss Fairchilde, that you show so much concern for my wellbeing.”

“I am not concerned,” she protested softly. “I...I am merely attempting to be practical. Do you not think it ludicrous for a man with no memory to be in such a hurry to depart the only place he knows he is safe?”

“No more ludicrous than a young woman inviting scandal upon herself instead of simply refusing a man’s offer of marriage.”

Anna flinched as a particularly loud crack of thunder seemed to shake the foundations underfoot. Her blush had spread down her throat and shivered across her skin, tightening into visible peaks beneath the silk.

“A gentleman,” she whispered, “would not mention the incident again.”

He was close enough to pluck a stray lock of dark hair off her shoulder and let it slip through his fingers. “You have heard what my brother has been saying about me all evening. If nothing else, I think we can safely assume that I am not a gentleman, at least not in any refined sense of the word. As for forgetting the incident--” he caught up the silky strand of hair and started to wind it slowly around his fingers. “I found myself thinking of little else each time I looked at you tonight.”

It was his eyes, she decided. Darkly magnetic, full of secrets and mysteries, she could not escape them. Tonight at dinner, each time he looked at her she felt compelled to reach down and grip the sides of the chair to keep from being physically pulled across the table. Later, in the parlor, she had tried keeping her attention trained elsewhere, at the sheets of rain blurring the window, the blue and orange flames in the fire, the remarkable two inches of ash that tipped off the end of her aunt’s cigar. But each time her guard slipped, she was drawn to the silent figure by the fireplace again.

Emory Althorpe had been ten feet away, on the opposite side of the room, but he might well have been sitting beside her, his thighs pressed to hers, his arms around her shoulders, his lips nuzzling hot patterns along the curve of her throat.

He was standing less than ten inches from her now yet it felt like he was right inside her skin. The air was crackling between them and it felt as if the storm had moved inside the hallway and the slightest touch would ignite a flame and burn them both to a cinders.

And his smile was widening, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.

Using the lock of imprisoned hair to gently coax her forward, Emory bowed his head and pressed his lips over hers. Anna’s eyes remained wide and fixed for a moment, but there was no burst of bright light, no instant incineration. The consummation was more gradual, beginning at her lips and ribboning downward in a warm spiral. As the heat and raw sensuality engulfed her, her lashes fluttered closed and she leaned willingly forward into his enfolding arms. Her lips parted with little persuasion and she met the slow, sensual thrust of his tongue with a sigh that carried with it all the longing, the loneliness, the confusion of her awakening emotions.