The Short and Fascinating Tale of Angelina Whitcombe (3 page)

She would be on the stage again. Perhaps in York or some other large town at first, but eventually, she could return to London. Elizabeth Duncan's time as celebrated actress would not last long. She was a talentless novelty.

Angelina closed her eyes, taking deep even breaths. Anger would achieve nothing other than to age her faster. Much better to think about something under her immediate control. Or someone.

Like Captain Martin.

John.

He had strong, lean arms, and against the rolled-up cuffs of his white sleeves, she'd admired the tanned cast of his skin, the fine hair that tapered down toward his wrist. She had a weakness for a man's forearms, for wrists and hands, and John was well-endowed in that area.

There was always that old wives' tale about hands. Not that Angelina had found that true in her limited experience. Lord Alverley had possessed lovely hands but was quite diminished in other charms. Fortunately, he had also been possessed with a fortune and a kind, generous nature. She'd been his mistress for two years after reaching London. If he hadn't chosen to be faithful upon marriage, she'd likely be his mistress still.

She'd really been quite fortunate in her lovers. Gentlemen all. If only Lord Peter Denham had been possessed of a more independent mind and not swayed to betray Angelina by that horrible Lizzie.

There she was again, thinking about the past.

She could not change it. She could only bide her time and plan.

And seduce John, who desired her but did not want to be seduced.

Yesterday, she had returned to the inn convinced that he did indeed wish to be left alone, but tonight . . . tonight it seemed very clear that his mother was correct; he needed to be drawn out. He wanted to be drawn out.

She imagined what the expression on his face would be when the following day he found her attempting an artistic rendition of his ruined castle yet again.

 

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

J
ohn woke with the sun. He stretched his arms and then propped his head on his hands and stared up at the thick wooden beams that crossed the ceiling. Next to him, Jasper was a warm pressure against his thigh. He liked waking here, with the last embers of the previous night's fire still glowing red, as if he lived in a world apart, hidden.

But something was different this morning.

The castle had always held an open, unformed sense of possibility. It had been untouched by humans for at least a century; though he knew visitors had come, none had attempted to since he resided there. News traveled fast in small towns.

Yet Angelina had come, and now he could still feel her presence here before the hearth, vibrating through him as solidly as Jasper's snores.

Disturbing.

At least that sensation would dissipate quickly. The odd episode had passed and he could continue on as before. He pushed the blankets off and stood. Jasper made a plaintive noise and John glanced back down to find the collie staring at him, kicking his legs, tangling the covers more.

He laughed and squatted down to run his hands briskly through Jasper's fur. Then with two firm pats to the dog's flank, he stopped and stood again. There was much to do today if he intended to have the castle fully habitable by next winter.

He went about his morning ablutions, went down to the stream for more water, and then prepared his morning toast from one of the loaves of bread he took from the manor every Sunday. Then he unrolled the newest of his plans for the tower and studied them as he ate.

It was a far cry from the first day he had explored the castle. He hadn't been to the ruins since before entering Woolwich Academy as a cadet, but instantly he'd visualized the renovation project. He'd ordered all the newest literature on construction methods and innovations, and then had started working on his plans. In the five months that he'd been working on the castle, he'd made considerable progress. He'd started with simple things: cleaning the rubble out from the interior, ensuring the fireplace was in working order, fixing the holes in the roof of the great hall. Once he'd made himself a livable space, he'd moved out of the manor house and then progress had grown exponentially. He'd painstakingly dug down into the dirt floors of what had once been the kitchen and beneath the thick exterior walls to lay pipes for drainage. Now he was working on reconstructing the wood planks of the first floor.

Armed with axe and saw, John ventured out of the castle just past noon to chop more wood for scaffolding. She was there again, the ribbons of her bonnet streaming behind her in the light breeze as she attempted to lay down a blanket on the grass. The same wind that so charmingly pressed her skirts against her legs, twisted the blanket, until finally, Angelina caught sight of him, stopped fighting the wind, and waved.

He had underestimated her determination to draw the castle.

Or to have an affair.

Heat rushed through him. He'd had his youthful infatuations and the usual affairs. Once, he wouldn't have questioned a woman's interest. But now . . . he forced himself to look away, go about his work.

It was a beautiful spring day.

After John disappeared around the bend, Angelina returned to her attempts to lay the blanket smoothly on the ground. Finally, she gave up and sat down, smoothing it out around her once she was settled. But the wind was strong and even in all of her layers of clothing, she couldn't muster up any enthusiasm for art under these blustery conditions. She had hoped to bide her time this morning, let the idea of her outside, drawing, grow in his mind until he wanted her to come in and keep him company.

She needed a new plan. One that involved sitting inside, preferably near the fire. Perhaps she could work on a still life, or a study of his dog.

She stood up again, gathered her belongings, and relocated.

Inside.

Wouldn't he be surprised?

Jasper met her halfway across the great hall, sniffing about her, sticking his nose up against the large wicker basket she carried. She'd come prepared.

She decided to settle herself in the middle of the stone floor and spread her blanket there. The fire and pallet would make an unusual subject for art. Later, though. She opened the basket and cut a slice of sausage for the dog before carefully selecting her own food. The innkeeper had prepared a fine cold repast.

Jasper stayed close, making low, plaintive growling sounds in his throat. By the time John finally returned, she'd fed the dog two sausages, which Jasper had eaten as if he'd never had anything as delicious before in his life.

“There you are.” John loomed over her, backlit by the midday sun that filtered in, his features indefinable. Even two feet from her, she felt heat radiating off his body. No wonder he could go about in just his shirtsleeves.

“Were you worried I'd left?” she teased.

“Terrified.”

“It was cold outside, so I thought I'd picnic in here. You should join me. I had the innkeeper pack for two.” She looked sidelong at Jasper, who was watching every move she made. “There's even enough for three.”

John laughed. “I can hardly refuse an invitation like that. I'll be back in a moment.”

She watched him walk over to the hearth. He had a long, purposeful stride, and as he walked, the fabric of his trousers molded to different parts of his well-shaped body. He washed his face and hands in one of the two buckets. If only he would take off that shirt again. Let water pour down those muscles.

Angelina looked away quickly, a bit shocked at the direction of her thoughts. She wasn't missish; she was experienced, for goodness sake. But this was a pure lust like she'd never felt before.

Her cheeks were still hot when he sat down next to her, stretching his legs out and leaning over to look inside the open basket.

Like dog, like master.

She pulled out the carefully wrapped packages: thickly sliced ham, pickles, cheese and bread. There were buns and tarts, and a jug of ale as well. Men rarely ate the noontime meal, and as he must be fending for himself, she doubted that, if he did eat at this hour, it was anything as indulgent.

He helped himself to a generous portion, stacking food on bread in a thick sandwich. If the way to a man's heart was through his stomach, she was well on that path.

“How long do you intend to stay in Auldale?” he asked between bites.

“I'm not entirely certain. Until I grow weary of it, I suppose,” she met his eyes for an instant before he looked back into the basket. “Or until I wear out my welcome.”

“Ah.” He was busy eating, as if, as he finished the sandwich and reached for more food, he were barely attending what she was saying, but she had the sense he heard everything, that he had thoughts, opinions.

When would he voice them?

Would
he voice them?

“At some point,” she continued, to break up the growing silence, “I'll return to the theater. I'll return to London.”

He put down a drumstick, licked his fingers. “For now, you want to hide, lick your wounds. Gain strength.”

Her breath caught.

The air felt a little thick, the air a bit too dusty and stinging her eyes.

“I wouldn't want to stop you from finishing your drawings of the castle. Someone should draw it for posterity, after all.”

The invitation was clear and her chest ached a bit. He thought her wounded, in need of a rescuer. The lovely man was playing his own, taciturn, version of a knight on a white horse.

Which was romantic and sweet.

While she was there under false pretenses.

S
he wasn't speaking. Perhaps he'd been too blunt. Perhaps she preferred to pretend she had everything under control, that she wasn't devastated at having to leave her life in London. That a strange sojourn in the north of Yorkshire in one of the coldest years in recent history was exactly how she had intended to spend the height of the London season.

Certainly, why should she admit her fears to him? A certain kinship might be there, but they were strangers.

He needed to lighten the mood.

“Nor would I stop you from picnicking on the ground.”

She laughed. There, that was better. He liked the sound of her laughter. It was rich and warm and made him want to taste it. Taste her.

Not that he would take advantage of her, despite her sexual invitation of the day before. She expected men to desire her, to use desire and coitus as currency.

“So easily, you could have all the comforts you wish,” she teased, shifting her weight, moving her feet to her other side. He caught a glimpse of stocking-clad calves above her half boots. Shapely calves. Bare, they would be even shapelier. “I'm certain that at the manor, meals aren't served on a blanket over hard stone.”

It was a ridiculous image, this strange picnic transposed to the inside the dining room of the manor house. But there, the blanket would be a thick woolen rug over the polished wood floor, and Angelina's blond hair would be perfectly framed by the rich fabrics and textures.

“If they were, perhaps I'd have stayed.”

“Truly though, what of the rest of your estate? I thought landowners had duties . . .”

Duties. Like continuing to fight for one's country even after one had lost faith.

He studiously picked an apple out of the basket and bit into it. His loud crunching punctuated the silence.

During the first days home he had sat down at the large oak desk that had once been his father's, consulted with his mother, the steward and tenants. Pored over ledgers and accounts. Exchanged letters with their banker in York.

“It was kept well in my absence,” he said finally. “There is little that requires my attention. Some men hunt, or ride, or spend their days in study of natural history. This”—he gestured to the room around them—“is how I choose to spend my time.”

He wiped his fingers on a napkin. Looked toward the high windows to assess the quality of light outside. Perhaps half an hour had passed since he'd first sat down. There were a few more hours of daylight in which to work.

“And as for my work, I'd best return to it. Please feel free to stay, come and go as you please.” He repeated the invitation though he half wished she'd forget he ever made it, would decide she'd had enough of Auldale. He wanted her, and that desire itself was a reminder of everything he wanted to forget.

 

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

S
he came every day that week. By Saturday, he looked forward to that moment when the sun was high above, when she'd appear around the curve of the village path bearing nuncheon and her sketchbook.

He met her halfway across the clearing and reached for the heavy basket and then kept pace with her as they walked back toward the castle.

“I told you, you don't need to bribe me with food.”

“That's what you say,” she said with a laugh. “But I prefer not taking the chance.”

Admittedly, he enjoyed the food. While he'd grown used to his simple fare, he was not immune to the charms of a well-cooked meal.

“I wonder what the innkeeper prepares for Sunday dinner. Do you work on Sundays?” she asked.

“No. Actually, I go to church and then join my mother for dinner at the manor.”

“John, you shock me!”

He stopped in his tracks, just outside the door of the castle. He felt the warm brush of Jasper's body against his leg as the dog passed him.

“That I don't work on the Sabbath?” There was merriment in her eyes and he struggled to find the joke.

“That you are positively sociable on Sundays.”
Sociable
. The word stayed with him even as she continued talking. “Here I thought you were a misanthropic hermit, and all along, you're simply an eccentric.”

His shoulders tensed with irritation. “Perhaps I'm both.” He crossed through the threshold, stalked toward the area of the hall that had become their makeshift dining table, and deposited the basket there. He knew more by scent than by sound that she'd caught up to him.

Yes. He knew her scent. He'd likely know it for years, be able to pick her out in the middle of a crowd, even blindfolded.

“I suppose that today being Saturday, sociable isn't in the cards. Shall we settle for roast duck?”

He laughed at that, despite himself. Helped her spread the thick blanket over the cool, time-worn stones.

“Actually, I had thought to invite you to join me tomorrow.”

“Had you?” She was smiling at him. As always, that first brilliant flash of teeth, of sparkling eyes, stunned him. “And have you stopped thinking?”

He reached for the loaf of bread. She was in one of her teasing moods. She'd continue this way for a while, he'd learned. Twisting whatever he'd said until she was bored or satisfied.

“Will you?” he pressed. “I can promise you a meal at an actual table. With chairs, tablecloth, and servants.”

“Servants, too?” she quipped. “How remarkable.”

He sighed. Something had bothered her. He cut a thick slice out of the small truckle of Wensleydale.

“It sounds lovely, John,” she said finally, not a tremor of humor in her voice. “But you know I cannot.”

He looked up.

“Don't stare at me as if you don't understand,” she exclaimed. “You aren't that dense.”

She thought him dense? He'd been one of the best at Woolwich. Nonetheless, he did at that moment feel like he was missing something.

“I'm an
actress
. Not a
lady
. I hardly think your mother wishes to break bread with Lord Alverley's former
mistress
.”

His cheeks burned hot.

He knew, of course, her history, but it was simply part of who Angelina was. His companion in hiding away from the world. In misanthropy and eccentricity. He laughed.

“It isn't funny.”

“I'm sorry,” he said quickly. “It's just, I don't think of you that way.”

Her face went still, wiped clean, as if she had donned a mask of Angelina and not the expressive woman he'd come to know.

“I know.” She made it sound like a failing that he didn't.

He dropped his food down on the napkin. He was losing track of this conversation. She was upset with him now, for more than one reason, it seemed.

“Does anyone else in Auldale know anything about you?” he asked, pushing aside everything else that was unimportant.

She stared and then finally shook her head. No.

“Then come to dinner.”

She could imagine that scene. Arriving at the manor and John introducing her to his mother. Mrs. Martin would certainly
not
be pleased. She'd hired a courtesan for her son, not for Sunday dinner.

“But
I
know, John. Your mother will hardly thank you if she ever does discover.”

“I find your company pleasant and restful. Why shouldn't she?”

He was just being obstinate now. There was surrender in his voice, acceptance.

She turned to the food. To the slices of roast beef still wrapped in paper.

He'd called her pleasant. Restful. All adjectives that served to make her genderless and asexual. She wasn't a threat to his self-imposed celibacy.

The novelty of it all had its own pleasure. When had she ever spent this many hours with a man with whom she hadn't yet slept? Other actors, she supposed. Or her neighbor in London, Mr. Baswick. He was the fellow who had informed her of the advertisement in the paper. But even that was over the course of months, not days.

At some point, however, this little platonic idyll would end. It had to. She could hardly live forever off the ten pounds Mrs. Martin had advanced her. Really, she should have bargained for expenses paid as well, because the price of the inn and food did add up.

“I didn't mean to offend,” he said suddenly, and she realized then how long the silence had dragged on.

She opened her mouth automatically to deny any offense but he continued, not looking at her.

“When you thought me a misanthrope, you were right. I do prefer my own company. Jasper's company.”

She had been teasing before. Hadn't meant to hurt him, but he was so serious now, as if her words had had an impact.

“War . . .” He fell off. Took a breath that seemed to physically shake the morose thoughts away. “I enjoy your company too. I appreciate that you make no apologies for your life. Have no shame for your actions. And you have no reason to feel shame.”

He stopped but there was so much more in what he didn't say.

“Why do
you
feel shame?” she asked.

He sucked in air sharply. The scar that twisted the left side of his face seemed more pronounced, as if there lay the story, even if he kept playing with the remnants of his food. Even if he never looked at her again. War. He'd started to say it earlier.

The man's realm. She knew nothing of battlefields, other than the fake battles staged with wooden swords on the boards—jealous, spiteful competitors who worked like assassins and puppet masters, doing their damage in shadows.

What had he seen? What had he experienced?

What had he done?

The last thought shocked her.

She'd taken for granted that this man before her was good. His mother's word, his own restraint. The increasing kindness he'd shown her over the week.

But he'd killed men. That was the nature of war. That's how England had vanquished Napoleon.

What else had he done? How had he done it? Why?

He glanced up. Brown eyes dark, pained, even as his lips smirked at her.

She blinked against the stinging, embarrassed by the sudden damp against her eyelashes.

He looked away again, brushed off his pants and stood. Jasper was there instantly in his master's place, scarfing down the remains of lunch as if he thought he only had a moment before Angelina would push him away.

“Running away won't help,” she said mildly. She closed the basket and rose to her knees.

“A strategic retreat.” His voice was taut, the words an attempt at humor even as he fought against himself. But he wasn't retreating very far. He simply stood there, unmoving, staring at the wall.

She stood as well. Stepped toward him. Touched his arm.

His shirt was made of sturdy cambric, but under her fingers it pressed down and molded to the shape of his muscled arm, which in turn twitched under the press of her hand.

“Tell me,” she whispered.

His lifted his right hand, closed it over hers, and looked down at her.

“What did you do?”

“I didn't do anything. That's exactly the problem, Angel.” The sweetness of hearing him use the diminutive of her name struck her before she understood the import of his words. And then he continued, “there wasn't anything I could do.”

He could see that day as clearly as if it were the present one and he struggled to explain. After the long nights of marking out the ground for the batteries, trudging through rain and mud during the maddening storms, on the night of the attack, he hadn't been in the first assaults on the town. No, it had been other engineers who had led the charge to the breaches by the inky darkness of night. Instead he'd been in the camp, and had seen the blazing lights, heard the distant clamor, the reports that hundreds of British soldiers had fallen.

Thousands, he'd seen later, when, after the city's fall, he'd approached the town.

The trenches were full with those dead and those dying. Death, he was used to, although one never fully became inured to the hell of war, the blood, scent and volume of the violence. And though there had been many sieges, he had not seen devastation such as that at Badajoz.

But it was inside the town that his life changed.

The soldiers had been given leave to pillage, again, a common-enough occurrence in war, but this was different. These were inebriated soldiers fighting each other, murdering civilians, terrorizing and raping the women. After two hours of trying to protect the innocents who were screaming for help, he stood in the middle of the street, feeling as if the houses spun around him. The world spun, and with it the hideous expressions of men he had thought heroes.

Was winning the town worth this?

At least under the French, the townspeople had been spared. Who, then, were the villains?

Sometime during his recitation, they'd moved to the fire, sat down again. Jasper lay by his legs, and he rested his hand on the dog's back.

“These were my friends, men with whom I'd drunk wine and broken bread. Men I had respected and liked.”

He glanced at her again, out of the corner of his eye. The horror had faded from her expression. She looked . . . thoughtful.

“You were right. You could have saved one person, perhaps, or two, but not hundreds.”

“Thousands,” he corrected. But he could see the numbers meant little to her. He saw them in the rows of dead that littered fields or the crushing melee of battle. “And we're the ones who were fighting for what's right. And yet . . .”

“No one protected the innocent.”

He nodded.

“That was four years ago, nearly. Why didn't you come home then?”

“Engineers were in demand. I had a duty to England. But when peace came, at last . . . I took my chance.” He took a deep breath. “This castle . . . in Spain, on the continent . . . I destroyed things. Here I can build.”

“Ohh.”

Her eyes were wide, luminous, as if she were looking deep into him.
Understanding
.

A trick of the eye, or more likely, what she wanted him to think. He knew, after these last few days, that only rarely did Angelina reveal any thought or emotion she didn't wish known.

But he
wanted
her to understand. He wanted
someone
to. That, after the last three years, and all these months back home, it would be Angelina, seemed natural. Inevitable.

She reached out, placed her hand over his. Her small, delicate hand. After a moment he turned his own hand and folded his fingers over hers.