Patrica Rice Read online

  Michael sat, fully clothed, in a chair between the fire and the window, his arms crossed forbiddingly over his wide chest. She’d seen him do that before, and it never meant anything good. With the light behind him, she couldn’t make much of his expression, and she was grateful for that reprieve. Michael set a high price on his principles.

  “I’ve brought your clothes and ordered fresh water. You may dress while I call the carriage.” He sounded murderous.

  He rose, and Blanche swallowed, realizing just how large he was. His lean build concealed the strength of ten men.

  She didn’t object when he let himself out. She hadn’t known what to expect from him, but she hadn’t expect cold anger. Michael didn’t know the meaning of cold, and his anger usually found outlet in action, not contemptuous words. She felt as if she’d fallen even lower than the man who ordered the militia to shoot yesterday. She was lower than that man. She owned the mill that had made wretched slaves of those people.

  That didn’t give Michael cause to treat her as if she were a piece of dirt. They had shared something beautiful last night. Why couldn’t he just admit that and go on?

  Because despite all appearances to the contrary, Michael was a gentleman, and gentlemen felt obligated to treat ladies with honor. That meant after what they’d done last night, he’d have to offer her marriage.

  Soberly, Blanche dragged herself from bed to the dressing screen. While she washed, she contemplated what she’d done.

  She didn’t want to marry. Michael didn’t want to marry. So why was there any problem? She would just explain things, make him understand. She’d enjoyed what they’d done. She would like knowing more. She didn’t fear having a child out of wedlock. Her wealth could conceal anything. Michael had shown her how to create illusions by giving people what they expected to see, while he did as he pleased behind their backs. If he could do it, so could she.

  Reaching that conclusion, Blanche recovered some of her equilibrium. She wanted to try coupling in the sunlight. In the carriage. Anywhere. Anytime. Her fingers grew clumsy with excitement as she tied her ribbons.

  Michael didn’t return. Uneasy, Blanche hurried as best she could. Michael had brought her valise to this room. She donned her blue velvet traveling gown and fastened her hair in a loop tied with matching ribbons. She covered her head with a jaunty hat that did nothing to disguise her gold tresses. She had little vanity, but she knew what men liked. She would make Michael want her again.

  She stopped in front of the mirror and grimaced at the faint red scars along her hairline, but she didn’t think Michael noticed them. Michael liked touching, and what he saw didn’t matter to him as much as what his other senses told him. She dabbed a little cologne to her wrists. She seldom wore it, but she would try anything to ease his anger.

  Sweeping down the stairs with heart pounding, Blanche didn’t see anyone in the lobby, and she hastened to the inn door. The coach waited in the yard, the driver already in his seat. She was starved and would like breakfast, but she didn’t want to escalate Michael’s anger. Glancing around, she saw his horse tied to the back of the coach, and her heart lightened. He would ride with her today!

  The innkeeper ran out bearing a brown paper-wrapped parcel that steamed in the early morning chill. Behind him a servant appeared with her trunk and tied it to the carriage.

  “His lordship ordered up some ham and hot bread, my lady. And I’ve added some cheese and bacon with some of my wife’s good jam. It will keep you going awhile. It’s been a pleasure serving you and your lord, my lady. I hope you will return again.”

  Astonished, Blanche took the package, then accepted the hand of the footman to help her into the carriage. Hot bricks waited on the floor to warm her feet. Michael had thought of everything. So where was the damned man?

  And why were they suddenly her ladyship and his lordship? They’d traveled incognito all this way, pretending to be the wealthy children of a Northumberland squire. What on earth had Michael told them? And why?

  She caught her breath on a gasp as Michael appeared in the inn yard carrying a steaming jug. He wore his most elegant beaver hat, curled at the brim and polished to the same gloss as his high top boots. An emerald swallow-tailed coat enhanced the breadth of his shoulders, and its cutaway tailoring emphasized the flatness and narrowness of his hips. He had no fancy watch or fobs, but the shimmering white of his cravat spoke of expensive tailors and an army of servants. Except she knew he had neither.

  She swallowed hard, realizing she now knew what lay beneath those gentlemanly clothes. She had never considered a man’s naked body before, but now her thoughts couldn’t travel past Michael’s. Even as she flushed with embarrassment at the memory of what they’d done, she wanted to try it again.

  Michael shook the innkeeper’s hand and crossed the yard to enter the carriage. Silently, he took the seat across from her, shrinking the interior with his presence. The driver let his horses have their heads, and the coach jerked into motion, nearly upsetting Blanche from the seat. She grabbed the hand grip rather than fall into Michael’s lap. The aroma of strong coffee struck her as she straightened.

  Michael produced a pewter cup from thin air and poured coffee from the jug he’d carried. Blanche wanted to smack him for this nonchalant performance, but she’d already learned her lesson about instigating arguments with this man. He disliked drama or high emotion and disappeared in its wake. She must talk with him before he took it into his head to vanish again.

  “I don’t suppose you could produce another cup while you’re at it?” she asked, eyeing the steaming mug with thirst.

  He silently handed her his.

  She looked down at it, then up at him. She couldn’t ever remember drinking from the same cup as anyone else. Meeting his mocking eyes and remembering what they had done last night, she blushed. It scarcely mattered if they shared a cup after last night. They’d certainly shared everything else. She drank thirstily.

  “Save some for me,” he said dryly. “I don’t think your head is as painful as mine.”

  Blanche returned the mug and dabbed at her lips with a handkerchief. “I am sorry for that. I think they made the punch recipe too strong.” She kept her gaze lowered as she opened the parcel in her lap.

  “That’s stating it mildly.”

  She regretted the tension between them. Michael had always made her laugh or think or took her away from whatever bothered her most. Cautiously, she handed him some bread and ham on a linen napkin the innkeeper had thoughtfully provided. When he didn’t take it, she was forced to look inquiringly at him.

  “My stomach won’t tolerate food right now,” he told her honestly. “I don’t hold my liquor well.”

  Blushing, Blanche glanced back at her lap. She took full responsibility for what had happened last night. But she didn’t know how to explain that in the bright light of day.

  “Why did the innkeeper call me my lady?” she asked instead.

  “The maid thought you’d been kidnapped when you weren’t in your room this morning. I had to convince them that we were just recently married and keeping it a secret until we reached our families. It also helped when I called myself Lord Michael. Apparently, the nobility are inclined to strange fits and starts.”

  Blanche smiled at this return of the Michael she knew. He had a tale covering any circumstance. But his tone remained empty and distant. Her apology hadn’t begun to touch the surface of his anger.

  “I am sorry I got you drunk, and I am sorry if I caused you any embarrassment.” Not knowing what else to say, she bit off some of the ham and bread as an excuse for not saying more.

  The silence in the carriage grew longer. The noise of the galloping horses drowned out any early morning birdsong. The trunk clattered against the back of the carriage. One of the rear wheels squeaked. But still, the silence was deafening.

  When she’d finished chewing, Michael interrupted her before she could take a second. “Why did you do it?”

  Startled, B
lanche finally lifted her gaze to his. She read nothing in his expression. She didn’t even see curiosity there. She’d never seen him quite so remote. The man across from her had become an enigmatic stranger. A handsome stranger, admittedly, but someone she could never have guessed existed inside the charismatic man she knew.

  She dropped her gaze again. “I wanted you to kiss me again.” She couldn’t offer anything less than honesty, if this were her punishment. She owed him that.

  “You wanted...” He cut off his astonishment and said with practiced casualness, “You certainly found an odd way to go about it.”

  “Yes, well, perhaps I had a little too much of the punch also. Any other man would have kissed me in the parlor, or at the door. I would no doubt have had to fight off the advances of any man who’d imbibed as much as you did. But you wouldn’t even kiss me.”

  She said the last angrily, almost convincing herself it was partially his fault for not indulging her in this one thing. But she knew better. She wasn’t really spoiled enough to believe she deserved everything she wanted.

  “I don’t suppose you gave consideration to the possibility that there was a reason for that,” he said dryly, sipping at his coffee again. He held up his hand when she glared at him. Finally, he showed some curiosity as he asked, “Why me? You could have the kisses of any man. Why must you have mine?”

  That question set her aback. Blinking, Blanche tried to formulate an answer. The more obvious one was that she wanted his kisses because she couldn’t have them. But that was a glib understatement. Finally, she admitted in a low voice, “Because I don’t like anyone else’s.”

  The silence that followed his noncommittal “Ahhh” nearly broke her.

  When she glanced back at him, he had his eyes closed and seemed asleep. Gently, she took the jug of coffee and corked it.

  She didn’t know if he truly slept. He hadn’t offered for her. Sighing, Blanche picked at the remains of her breakfast. Apparently, even Michael knew the impossibility of a match between them. She didn’t suppose he’d be too willing to continue to share her bed without it, though. Why, of all the men she could have chosen, had she fallen for the one with enough honor to stay out of her bed?

  Seventeen

  Fiona sat cross-legged in front of the garret window, watching the Runner strolling along the trash-filled alley below, and wondered if she had been wrong to run away from O’Toole and Lady Blanche. Family loyalty required she protect Seamus and her uncle. They were all she had, and O’Toole had seemed intent on discovering all her secrets, drat the man. Only now, sitting here helpless, she wondered if she hadn’t been just a bit hasty.

  She’d sent the Runner a message when she’d heard the plans for picking off England’s great nobles one at a time. At least Seamus and Uncle William hadn’t been part of that discussion. They had apparently returned to Ireland to gather funds. She’d learned the other conspirators by appearance well enough to follow them to their meeting places. They seldom wandered farther than these back alleys of Covent Garden, and she had Little Jack helping her. Hiding in these musty old attics, she could almost always hear their plans.

  Unfortunately, she feared they knew she lurked nearby. Seamus had received word that she’d gone missing. The men who had blown up the duke’s carriage had heard the lady was looking for someone named Fiona. She should never have given O’Toole her real name. Now they had added Lady Blanche to their list of targets along with her cousin, the duke. She didn’t dare go near either of them again.

  It wasn’t as if she didn’t understand the need for Irishmen to control their own destiny. She certainly recognized the frustration and anger of the overworked poor. But she could not sympathize with violence. There had to be a better way.

  At the moment, though, she was more concerned with her own neck. She couldn’t continue hiding in one garret or cellar or another. She’d enlisted the aid of a homeless little boy who brought her what morsels he thieved. She shared her hiding places with him and helped him steal food from the poor larders of the houses she hid in. But ultimately, they would get caught. That was why she kept watch on the Runner.

  He was searching for her, so she concluded Lady Blanche must have hired him. Seamus and O’Toole wouldn’t have the funds. Fiona didn’t want the lady harmed. She would warn her about the danger of this group of mad radicals except she couldn’t figure out how to do it without involving Seamus and William.

  She had to do something soon. Last night the madmen had decided they couldn’t acquire enough gunpowder to blow up Parliament, but they almost had sufficient funds for a nobleman’s house. They intended to wait until all the cabinet officials had one of their dinners together. The Duke of Anglesey had planned such a dinner the first week of May.

  Fiona watched the Runner disappear around the corner and sighed. She owed the duke naught. Did she dare risk herself and her family to warn him?

  * * *

  Blanche allowed Michael to feign sleep for as long as she could. Perhaps he truly did doze upon occasion, but she knew he was awake now. Even Michael hadn’t the willpower to stop his eyelids from flickering.

  “Your coffee will grow cold if you don’t finish it soon,” she said aloud. “And you really should have something in your stomach to settle it.”

  He opened his eyes and glared at her, then closed them again. Perhaps the sunlight hurt his head. “I must go back, Michael. I can’t leave those poor people out of work. It’s an outrage. I shall just go in and tell that horrible man who I am, and set things right.”

  Michael groped for the cup without opening his eyes. “You’ll ruin your reputation by appearing there without an appropriate escort, and you will do it for naught. He doesn’t even know the mill owner’s name. He’ll demand written notification from Barnaby. You’ve done all you can. When you interview men for Barnaby’s position, you can make certain they’re prepared to travel at once. That’s all you can do.”

  Blanche took his cup and filled it. She enjoyed the way Michael sipped gratefully at the coffee she handed him, as if making him happy mattered.

  “It’s not enough,” she insisted. “Many of those people were injured because of me. They won’t have any way of providing food for their tables. Children could go hungry. If nothing else, I must go back and distribute food.”

  He opened his eyes to narrow slits. “I took care of that. Our traveling funds are now quite limited. We won’t be staying in such elegant inns from here on.”

  It didn’t surprise Blanche that Michael had divested her of her money to provide for others without asking permission—or even discussing the matter. But still it frustrated her that she could do nothing else.

  “I want that manager removed,” she said. “And I want those people back to work.”

  Michael unbent his long legs and stretched them across the carriage. Blanche had the uneasy feeling that he was staring at her breasts. She squirmed at the thought.

  “I’ve taken care of that, too,” he admitted wearily. “I forged Barnaby’s name on a letter remanding earlier orders. The mill will begin twelve hour work days and the workers are receiving a wage increase. Of course, the same needs to be done at every mill you own, but since I don’t know the extent of your holdings, I could only correct the one situation.”

  She kicked his large boot with her small one. “You forged Barnaby’s name! How could you? And shouldn’t you have at least consulted me before going to such lengths?”

  He shrugged. “I doubted you would approve of forgery and saw no reason to blot your pristine conscience with my actions.”

  “And here I thought you different from other men!” she exploded. “Why must you all think of me as some mush-brained ninnyhammer who can’t do anything for herself? Isn’t it possible that I might like to be consulted about things that affect my interests? Or must all of you believe that only a man knows what is best for a woman?”

  Michael opened his eyes enough to glare at her. “I did precisely what you just suggested, on
ly a little more effectively. Had I asked your permission to forge Barnaby’s signature, you would have gone all proper on me, and nothing would have got done.”

  “How do you know what I would have done since you didn’t bother asking?” she demanded. “And how could you have forged Barnaby’s signature? You’ve never seen it.”

  With a scowl, he produced a rumpled piece of paper from an inner coat pocket. “I stole this from your desk that day I heard you arguing with him.”

  Blanche swept the bill of sale from between his fingers, noted the familiar signature of her man of business, and slapped it back in Michael’s hands. “Why in the name of heaven would you have stolen such a thing?”

  The paper disappeared somewhere about his person. “I find such things useful from time to time. Gavin tries to correct inequities from his position in Parliament, but he might as well try carrying the world on his shoulders. Those stiff-necked aristocrats won’t surrender one inch of their power unless someone holds a gun to their heads. I simply find more efficient, if less legal, means of achieving what Gavin wants. Of course, I can only do a little at a time, but that’s better than nothing at all.”

  Blanche slumped against the carriage seat. “I don’t suppose you were in Derbyshire earlier this year?”

  Michael watched her warily. “Could be.”

  “When the squire discovered someone had sold his fabled gun collection and distributed the proceeds to his tenant farmers?”

  Michael drained his cup, leaned his shoulders back against the seat, and closed his eyes. “Providential that someone wanted to buy the collection, I’d say.”

  “Providential that an entire armament room could empty itself overnight,” she returned with sarcasm. “I had wondered at the time. It didn’t seem the work of ordinary thieves.”