Patrica Rice Page 22
Blanche smiled sweetly at the government official behind the desk, held out her hand for his salute, and answered without a trace of the acid she felt. “I’m certain the Crown has been most efficient, but we cannot neglect true aristocracy, can we? I simply wish to see that my friends have not been unfairly treated.” The stack of pound notes she had left behind to aid the official in his search should ensure that.
Wishing she could do more, and knowing her time was limited, Blanche hurried out of the government office toward the dock. Her path took her past the hotel where she had registered before finding Michael. To her surprise, the street seemed inexplicably cluttered with soldiers. She slowed her pace, gauging the situation. Several glanced in her direction as she approached, and Blanche decided she had best remove herself from view.
Before she could act, a man leaning against the wall of a nearby alley stepped forward, grabbed her arm, and dragged her into the shadows.
She didn’t have time to scream before he warned, “Don’t! We’re getting out of here.” Michael. Blanche sighed in relief and gladly followed his path as he hurried down the alley.
“Drat,” Michael muttered when he glanced into the street beyond the alley’s end. Blanche couldn’t see over his shoulder, but she surmised more soldiers strolled about.
Perhaps the prison escapade hadn’t worked as well as he’d hoped. Dread roiling inside her, Blanche watched as he studied their surroundings and decided upon a door in the far wall.
He pried open the door and shoved her inside, bolted the latch, and they stood in utter darkness.
“I had every intention of wringing your neck,” he murmured angrily, but his hands when they slid into her hair were gentle.
“Michael, what is happening?” she asked before his mouth descended over hers and the question disappeared into his kiss.
Michael gratefully closed his fingers in the silkiness of Blanche’s hair while he drank deeply of her lips. It had been weeks... He needed this physical reassurance that nothing had changed between them.
Recovering from the first surprise of passion, she tried shoving him away, but her efforts were puny.
“We’re safe,” he murmured, busying himself with the buttons of her bodice. “It’s not us they’re after. Yet.”
He ignored her breathless questions as he single-mindedly went about his task. He needed to touch. He could feel the full swell of her breasts brushing against him, but he needed more.
The bodice opened and he slid his hands beneath the cloth. In seconds, he’d untied the ribbons of her chemise, and filled his palms with the heavy weight of her breasts. He gave a sigh of deep pleasure as he measured their new fullness.
Blanche stilled beneath his caress, but when he circled her nipples with his thumbs, she breathed a protesting, “Michael!”
“Already, you grow rounder with my child,” he mused aloud, reveling in the silk of her skin against his palms. An unexpected thought leapt to mind, and he grinned. “Had I wondered how a large bosomed woman felt, my curiosity would be satisfied.”
Blanche smacked at his shoulders, but he was too lost to the sensation of touch to notice. Her nipples puckered beneath his tug, and her breath came in shorter pants as he slid his palms back and forth.
“Michael, have you lost your mind? What are you doing?”
Keeping his hands filled, he kissed her ear and drank in the sweet scent of her hair.
“It’s been over a month, my love. What do you think I’m doing? Or have you forgotten so quickly?” he asked teasingly. Murder had fled his mind for the moment.
“You cannot! Not here. Why are those soldiers out there? What if someone comes?”
He halted her questions with a kiss. He truly didn’t care about the answers. He had Blanche in his arms again, and nothing else mattered. Again, she tried pushing away, but his tongue persuaded her elsewise. Joy swept through him as she surrendered, and her lips responded eagerly. He had waited for this woman all his life. He deserved this reward.
Having doffed his stolen coat at the docks, he wore only shirt and breeches to dilute his pleasure. Blanche stroked his chest, finding the tie of his linen and pulling it, then sliding her fingers into the opening. Just knowing she wanted to touch him drove him to madness.
Given his life, he could die within the hour. Before he left this mortal coil, he wanted to feel the swelling of his child. With haste, he tugged at Blanche’s bodice, finding the tapes that released the front of her skirt. She gasped as the cool air hit her, but he wouldn’t let her stay cold long. He pulled the short chemise upward, and at last, his hand found the smooth skin between her hip bones.
“The hollow is gone,” he murmured with pleasure, testing the firmness of the very slight swelling there. “You are rounding already.”
“Michael!” Blanche buried her face against his shoulder in embarrassment, trying to escape his prying hands, but he wouldn’t allow her to demean herself with that emotion.
“We’ve created a child together,” he said proudly, still finding it hard to believe. “It’s a miracle. Don’t hide your head in shame. Let me enjoy the miracle with you.”
She shuddered, and Michael guessed she’d spent these last months worrying about nothing and everything. He would take that burden from her. He returned his mouth to hers and awakened her desires again until she’d wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her belly up against him.
The very proper lady had needs as strong as his, thank all the gods and fates.
“Tell me you’re mine, Blanche. Tell me you’ll spend the rest of your nights in my bed from this day forward.”
Blanche rubbed against him, and Michael almost lost control there and then. But now that the question had come out, he wanted an answer.
Lifting her buttocks in his hands until their hips touched, he bent and licked her nipple, knowing its arousal, feeling the changes caused by the child, and wanting—needing—acknowledgment of his place in her life. “You can’t deny me, Blanche. You carry the result of our joining. I’ll not let you flee to the Continent and leave me behind. Tell me now, and make us both happy.”
“Michael, I can’t,” she pleaded. “Let’s not talk of this. Please, Michael.”
He might have foolishly argued, but a pounding on the latched door doused his ardor as effectively as her words. Cursing, Michael let her slide from his hands while he hastily pulled up her bodice and began fastening the buttons.
She seemed dazed, but connected enough to begin fastening her own clothing so he might rearrange his. Michael pulled Blanche in the direction of the shop and away from the pounding at the alley door. Without the shako for disguise, his resemblance to Seamus would surely set someone off.
Thirty
Blanche thought she ought to feel shame as they hurried toward the dock a few hours later. She’d behaved like a wanton, then rejected the father of her child, a man who had risked his life to return for her. She was a terrible person.
She didn’t dare look at Michael. He’d donned a shabby wool jacket that hung on him like a scarecrow’s leavings. They’d found the garments in the warehouse office and left coins to replace them. No one had even noticed them as they’d slipped into the street like all the other curiosity seekers.
Michael wants me in his bed every night. But even he hadn’t been bold enough to suggest marriage. She owned more houses than she could count, and Michael had never bothered to create a single room for himself anywhere. So it would be her bed, and it wouldn’t be every night. And then he would disappear one day and she wouldn’t even know he was alive.
She deserved better than that. She hoped. They had nothing in common but what they shared in bed. And the child. “I thought you said the ship sailed,” she said irritably as their direction became clear.
“We’ll book passage on another. We’re going to Cornwall instead of London, anyway. That is where your mines are, aren’t they?” Apparently unperturbed by her irritation, Michael studied their surroundings.
“I don’t suppose you ever questioned how the mines made such high profits?” Michael asked as they stopped at the office of a shipping company.
“I thought mines were supposed to make high profits.” Blanche jerked her hand from his.
Michael gave her a withering look. “Maybe you should let Neville handle your business affairs.” He grabbed her elbow and steered her into the shipping office. “Keep quiet and let me do the talking.”
He needn’t sound so condescending. But she’d just rejected him. She couldn’t expect him to praise her ignorance.
A few minutes later they emerged with passage booked on a ship that sailed for Plymouth in the morning. Blanche removed her arm from Michael’s grasp. “My trunks sailed with Fiona,” she reminded him. “I have nothing to wear.”
“Fine. I’ve an army of redcoats in hot pursuit, no doubt an entire band of wild-eyed radicals who want their hands on my neck, a ship with possibly my last remaining relatives sailing into the sunset, and I haven’t eaten since dawn. But I’ll find you suitable clothes. What would you like? A proper nightdress for the bed we’ll share this evening? A ball gown so you might attend some fancy function with one of the officers you flirted with today? A traveling gown for the morrow? Do tell me your fancy.”
She’d never seen him this angry. Usually, he vanished when they disagreed. Her eyes widened... He wasn’t abandoning her.
“You become overly sarcastic when you can’t run away,” she said scornfully. “I merely remarked upon the complication.”
“I never said I was perfect.” Giving her totally unsuitable muslin gown a glare, Michael steered her back toward the city. “You’ll freeze in that thing. Why can’t you wear sensible woolens?”
“It’s the middle of June,” she pointed out reasonably. “I’ve been quite comfortable all day. But the sea air is brisk in the evenings.”
He didn’t acknowledge her sensible explanation. He had decided to be angry with her and nothing she said would change it. Unless, of course, she said she would sleep with him every night. Then he’d come around, no doubt. Well, he’d wait until the devil crocheted doilies before she’d do that. His behavior now merely confirmed her resolve not to tie herself to irrational men.
When Michael dragged her into a tavern, Blanche decided to engrave that resolution in gold and wear it about her neck instead of his damned ring. She felt as if every man in the place stared at her. And every woman. Startled to realize women frequented these places, Blanche stared back. They didn’t look like loose women. Most of them were dowdy and wrapped to their ears in shawls and wool. Her own fashionable high-waisted muslin was definitely out of place.
Michael ordered ale and dinner. Blanche stared at him. Michael didn’t drink, as she had every reason to know. He ignored her stare. Seemingly oblivious of his surroundings, he sprawled in an old wooden booth with so many knife carvings in it, Blanche thought it remarkable the thing didn’t fall into sawdust. Cautiously, she took the bench across from him, knowing his mind had leapt to another plane, heeding neither her nor anyone else. Michael never ignored her at any other time.
Blanche shoved that thought and its accompanying warmth away. Her placid nature made it easy for people to ignore her. Even when he was furious, Michael gave her his full attention every minute they were together, except at moments like this.
So she kept silent and let him concentrate while she examined the tavern and its inhabitants. The room stank of smoke, stale ale, sweat, and cheap perfume. Over and beyond that, she could smell frying fat. That stench alone should make her stomach queasy, but for some reason, the child within her didn’t object. Gratefully, she patted her belly.
When their food arrived, Michael absently requested a pitcher of water and tackled the meal as if starved. While she sipped at the tea he ordered for her, Blanche watched as he drank from the pitcher and not the tankard of ale.
He managed his next act so smoothly, she didn’t catch on until she heard a gasp from the bar across the aisle. Blanche glanced up. Michael had balanced his fork on the tip of his knife, then spun his mysteriously empty tankard on another finger as he apparently contemplated adding it to the tottering tower of utensils.
“Michael!” Blanche protested, having no desire to become the focus of attention.
He transferred his utensils to the rim of the spinning tankard and reached for her teacup. She snatched it back. Someone threw him a pewter plate. Grinning, Michael spun it on his finger as he contemplated the new configuration.
“Let’s have a tune,” he suggested. “This goes much easier with music.”
A man in the corner who already played idly at bits and pieces of song on a hand organ gladly obliged with a few rollicking notes. Someone with a fine tenor picked up the words. Within minutes, the entire tavern resounded with music. Plates and utensils, coins and assorted watches, fobs, and whatever anyone carried in their pockets appeared on the table. The spinning tower became a growing circle of objects juggled from hand to hand, occasionally disappearing and reappearing in odd places like Blanche’s pockets or the audience’s hats. The spinning circle never halted, just changed contents.
After a time, Blanche noticed the coins had a tendency to disappear and not reappear. No one protested. She supposed they considered it the price of entertainment. At one point, Michael spun the tower while drinking from the pitcher of water. After he emptied the pitcher, he joined in the song, and Blanche listened in amazement to his fine tenor. She didn’t think she’d ever heard him sing before. She clapped her hands in time, and others stomped their feet.
When Michael stood up and headed for the bar, Blanche held her breath in fear the circle of plates and utensils would descend upon their heads. Instead, they distributed themselves up and down the bar in direct proportion to the number of empty tankards magically stacking themselves into an enormous tower. The crowd roared with approval, and the hat Michael had swiped from somewhere jingled with coins.
He was enjoying himself thoroughly, blast the man, Blanche thought irritably as the crowd surged between them. He knew precisely when to change his act, when the crowd’s attention flagged, how to keep them adding coins to his collection. And he did it with such flair no one could complain—not even the tavern owner, who watched his tankards carefully but did nothing to halt the show. Michael’s act had packed the tavern seats and filled the room, and everyone was buying another round.
A break in the milling crowd gave Blanche another glimpse of Michael. While he juggled heaven only knew how many objects from hand to hand, his gaze followed her, burning with a passion she could feel within herself.
As if reading her thoughts, Michael deposited his tankards and plates in a confusing array all across the room, balancing platters on the heads of old men and adorning the heavy shawls of young women with forks. Everyone roared as they sought the misplaced dinnerware under chairs and tables, and even the tavern keeper seemed distracted by the confusion.
While everyone watched elsewhere, Michael caught Blanche’s arm, tugged her from the booth, and escaped with her into the darkness of the evening. Now she had some inkling of how he appeared and disappeared like magic.
“Where are we going?” she demanded as he hurried her down one street after another.
“To find you suitable clothing,” he answered without inflection. “I’ll not have you catching cold in that flimsy thing. Or giving our child a cold.”
“The shops are closed at this hour,” she protested.
“All the better.” He grinned and steered her down a side street beside a small series of shops, found a door in a back alley, and after using his knife on
the latch, he let them inside.
“Michael, this is thievery! We cannot just walk in and take what we like. Besides, it takes a modiste days to sew my attire.”
“We don’t have days. And we’ll pay for what we take. Come here, let me see what I can find for you.”
To Blanche’s surprise and horror, the shop was littered with old clothes and shoes. Michael propped a high crowned beaver hat on his head and shook out a lovely cashmere shawl to drape over Blanche. Rummaging through the racks, he found a pea green wool frock coat for himself, and a serviceable blue kerseymere gown for her. Humming the tune he’d started earlier in the tavern, he retrieved several other articles, and took a final look around for more. Blanche noticed he hadn’t included any night clothes in his shopping list.
“These clothes are worn,” she whispered angrily. “What if they have lice or worse?”
“You’d know it by now if they did, and we can always wash them if you prefer,” he answered as he poked among the shoes and hats. Finding a carved walking stick and a dilapidated carpet bag for carrying their new possessions, he emerged triumphant from the corner and counted his coins out upon the counter.
“I can pay for them,” Blanche protested. “I didn’t leave my purse on the ship.”
The look he gave her was unfathomable in the gloom of the unlighted shop. “We’re living in my world now. I’ll pay our way. I don’t need your coins.”
She wanted to hit him over the head with his walking stick at this perversely male attitude. At the same time, pride surged through her. Michael didn’t run up debts to keep himself in starched cravats. Of course, he only did this to prove he didn’t need her.
Blanche gloomily accepted that knowledge as he led her from the shop. Michael had lived nearly thirty years without her or her wealth. He didn’t need her—except in bed.